What Happens in London

Chapter Twenty-two

Where is she?”

That was all Harry managed to get out before he launched himself at the prince. He had followed Vladimir to a room at the back of the house, his panic rising with each step. He knew he was being foolish; this could be a trap. Someone obviously knew he worked for the War Office; how else would Vladimir have known he spoke Russian?

He could be walking toward his own execution.

But it was a chance he had to take.

Still, when he saw the prince standing there, illuminated by a single candle on a bare table, Harry snapped. His fear made him even stronger, and when they both hit the floor, it was with stunning force.

“Where is she?” Harry yelled again. “What have you done with her?”

“Stop!” Vladimir wedged himself between the two men, pulling them apart. It was only when Harry was standing again, held an arm’s length from the prince, that he realized Alexei had not fought back.

The terror in the pit of his stomach grew. The prince looked pale, grim. Frightened.

“What is going on?” Harry whispered.

Alexei handed him a piece of paper. Harry took it over to the candle and looked down. It was written in Cyrillic; Harry didn’t protest. This was not the time to pretend he could not read it.

The lady will live if you cooperate. She will be expensive. Tell no one.

Harry looked up. “How do we know it’s her? They don’t mention her by name.”

Wordlessly, Alexei held out his hand. Harry looked down. It was a lock of hair. Harry wanted to say that it might not be hers, that there could be another woman with hair that color, that unbelievable shade of sun and butter, with the same amount of curl, not a ringlet but more than a wave.

But he knew.

“Who wrote this?” he asked. In Russian.

Vladimir spoke first. “We think-”

“You think?” Harry roared. “You think? You had better start knowing, and damned soon. If anything happens to her…”

“If anything happens to her,” the prince cut in with icy precision, “I will cut out their throats myself. There will be justice.”

Harry turned to him slowly, trying to hold back the roiling acid in his belly. “I don’t want justice,” he said, his voice low and flat with rage. “I want her.”

“And we will get her,” Vladimir said quickly. He shot the prince a look of warning. “She will not come to harm.”

“Who are you?” Harry demanded.

“It does not matter.”

“I think it does.”

“I work also for the War Office,” Vladimir said. He shrugged a little. “Sometimes.”

“Pardon me if you fail to capture my trust.”

Vladimir looked at him again, that hard, direct stare that had unnerved Harry back in the ballroom. It was clear that he was much more than the menacing manservant he pretended to be.

“I know Fitzwilliam,” Vladimir said in a low voice.

Harry froze. No one knew Fitzwilliam-not unless he wanted them to. His mind reeled. Why would Winthrop have ordered him to observe Prince Alexei if they already had Vladimir in place?

“Your man Winthrop did not know about me,” Vladimir said, anticipating Harry’s next question. “He is not high enough to know about me.”

As far as Harry knew, the only person higher up than Winthrop was Fitzwilliam himself. “What is going on?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

“I am not a sympathizer of Napoleon,” Prince Alexei said. “My father was, but I”-he spat on the floor-“am not.”

Harry looked at Vladimir.

“He does not work with me,” Vladimir said, motioning with his head toward the prince. “But he is…supportive. He has given money. And the use of his land.”

Harry shook his head. “What does this have to do with-”

“There are those who would seek to use him,” Vladimir interrupted. “He is valuable, alive or dead. I protect him.”

It was amazing. Vladimir really was Alexei’s bodyguard. One tiny truth in a web of lies.

“He is here to visit his cousin, just as he says,” Vladimir continued. “It is a convenient way for me to meet with my associates in London as well. Unfortunately, the prince’s interest in Lady Olivia did not go unnoticed.”

“Who took her?”

Vladimir looked away for a moment, and Harry knew it was bad. If he could not look him in the eye, Olivia was in grave danger indeed.

“I am not certain,” Vladimir finally said. “I can’t tell yet if there are political considerations or it is just for money. The prince is a man of considerable wealth.”

“I was told his fortunes had declined,” Harry said curtly.

“They have,” Vladimir confirmed, raising a hand to stop Alexei from defending himself. “But he still has much. Land. Jewels. More than enough for a criminal to wish to ransom someone close to him.”

“But she’s not-”

“Someone thinks I was planning to ask her to marry me,” Alexei cut in.

Harry turned on him. “Were you?”

“No. I might have considered it once. But she-” He waved a hand dismissively through the air. “She is in love with you. I do not need a woman who will love me. But I will not tolerate one who loves someone else.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Apparently your intentions were not made clear to your enemies.”

“For that I would apologize.” Alexei swallowed, and for the first time since Harry had known him, he looked uncomfortable. “I cannot control what others think of me.”

Harry turned to Vladimir. “What do we do now?”

Vladimir gave him a look that told him he would not like what came next. “We wait,” he said. “We will be contacted again.”

“I’m not going to stand here and-”

“And what do you suggest we do instead? Interview every last guest? The note said to tell no one. We already disobeyed when we told you. If these are men like I think they are, we do not want to make them upset with us.”

“But-”

“Do you want to give them a reason to hurt her?” Vladimir demanded.

Harry felt himself choking. It was as if someone had reached up from his belly and was strangling him from the inside out. He knew Vladimir was right, or at least he knew that he didn’t have any better ideas.

It was killing him. The fear. The helplessness. “Someone has to have seen something,” he said.

“I am going to investigate,” Vladimir said.

Harry immediately made for the door. “I am going with you.”

“No,” Vladimir said, putting up a hand to stop him. “You have too much emotion. You will not make good decisions.”

“I can’t do nothing,” Harry said. He felt small again, young and powerless, staring down a problem only to find there were no good solutions.

“You won’t,” Vladimir assured him. “You will do much. But later.”

Harry watched as Vladimir went to the door, but before he could leave, he shouted, “Wait!”

Vladimir turned around.

“She went to the washroom,” Harry said. “She went to the washroom after…” He cleared his throat. “I know that she went to the washroom.”

Vladimir gave a slow nod. “This is good to know.” He slipped out the door and was gone.

Harry looked at Alexei.

“You speak Russian,” Alexei said.

“My grandmother,” Harry said. “She refused to speak English to us.”

Alexei nodded. “My grandmother, she was from Finland. She was the same.”

Harry gave him a long look, then sank into a chair, his head in his hands.

“It is good that you speak our language,” Alexei said. “Very few of your countrymen do.”

Harry tried to ignore him. He had to think. He didn’t know where to start, what he might possibly know that could help to determine Olivia’s whereabouts, but he knew that he had to scour his brain.

But Alexei would not stop talking. “I am always surprised when-”

“Shut up!” Harry burst out. “Just shut up. Don’t speak. Do not say a single bloody word unless it is about finding Olivia. Do you understand me?”

Alexei was very still for a moment. Then, silently, he crossed the room to a bookcase and pulled down a bottle and two glasses. He poured a liquid-vodka, probably-into both glasses. Without speaking, he set one of the glasses down in front of Harry.

“I don’t drink,” Harry said, not bothering to look up.

“It will help you.”

“No.”

“You say you are Russian? You don’t drink vodka?”

“I don’t drink anything,” Harry said curtly.

Alexei regarded him with some curiosity, then took a seat on the far side of the room.

The glass sat untouched for nearly an hour, until Alexei, finally accepting that Harry spoke the truth, picked it up and drank it himself.

After about ten minutes, Olivia finally managed to calm her body down enough to allow her mind to work properly. She had absolutely no idea what she could possibly do to aid in her rescue, but it seemed prudent to gather whatever information she could.

It was impossible to figure out where she was being held. Or was it? She scooched herself up into a sitting position and examined the room as best she could. It was almost impossible to see anything in the dim light. There had been a candle but the man had taken it with him.

The room was small, and the furnishings were sparse, but it was not shabby. Olivia nudged herself closer to the wall and squinted at the plaster. Then she rubbed her cheek against it. Neat and tidy, with no chips or peeling paint. Looking up, she saw a crown molding where the walls met the ceiling. And the door-it was difficult to tell from where she sat on the bed, but the knob looked to be of high quality.

Was she still in the ambassador’s residence? It seemed possible. She bent over, placing her cheek against the bare skin of her arms. Her skin was warm. Wouldn’t she feel chilled if she’d been taken outside? Of course, she did not know how long she had been unconscious. It was possible she’d been here for hours. Still, she didn’t feel as if she’d been outside.

A panicked bubble of laughter threatened to burst from her throat. What was she thinking? She didn’t feel as if she’d been outside? What did that mean? Was she going to start making decisions based on gut feelings on what may or may not have happened when she was unconscious?

She forced herself to pause. She needed to calm down. She wasn’t going to be able to accomplish anything if she succumbed to hysterics every five minutes. She was smarter than that. She could keep a calm head.

She had to keep a calm head.

What did she know about the ambassador’s residence? She had been there twice, first during the day, when she was presented to Prince Alexei, and then at night, for the ball.

It was a huge building, a veritable mansion right in the middle of London. Surely there were myriad rooms where a person could be hidden. Perhaps she was in the servants’ quarters. She frowned, trying to remember the servants’ rooms at Rudland House. Did they have crown moldings, too? Were the doorknobs of as high a quality as the rest of the house?

She had no idea.

Damn it. Why didn’t she know that? Shouldn’t she know that?

She turned to the far wall. There was one window, but it was obscured by heavy velvet curtains. Dark red, maybe? Dark blue? It was impossible to tell. The night was sucking all of the color out of her surroundings. The only light coming in was from the moon, filtering through the semicircular window above the curtained rectangle.

She paused, thinking. Something was tapping at her memory.

She wondered if she might be able to see out the window, if she were able to maneuver herself off the bed. It would be difficult. Her ankles had been tied so tightly together there was little hope of making even baby steps. And she hadn’t realized how off balance she would feel with her hands bound behind her back.

Not to mention that she had to do everything in total silence. It would be a disaster if her captor came back and found her anywhere but on the bed, right where he’d left her. Very carefully, and very slowly, she swung her legs off the bed, inching her way toward the edge until her feet touched the floor. Keeping her movements similarly controlled, she was able to maneuver herself to a standing position, and then, by leaning on various pieces of furniture, she made her way toward the window.

The window. Why did the window seem so familiar?

Probably because it was a window, she told herself impatiently. They weren’t exactly replete with unique architectural detail.

When she reached her destination, she leaned carefully forward, trying to push the curtains aside with her face. She started with her cheek, then, once she had them pushed a bit to the side, she rolled her face forward, trying to hook the edge of the curtains with her nose. It took her four tries, but eventually she managed it, even jabbing her shoulder forward to block the curtains from falling back into place.

Resting her head against the glass, she saw…nothing. Just the fog from her breath. She moved her head to the side again, using her cheek to rub the mist away. When she faced front again, she held her breath.

Still, she couldn’t see much. The only thing she could determine for sure was that she was fairly high up, perhaps on a fifth or sixth floor. She could see the roofs of other buildings and not much else.

The moon. She could see the moon.

She had seen the moon in the other room, the one where she’d made love with Harry. She’d seen it through the fanlight window.

The fanlight window!

She edged back, very carefully so as not to lose her balance. This window also had a fanlight at the top. Which didn’t mean much, except there was a pattern to it, mullions spreading out from the center point on the bottom, making it look rather like a handheld fan.

Exactly like the one downstairs.

She was still in the ambassador’s residence. It was possible that she’d been brought to another building with the exact same window pattern, but that was unlikely, wasn’t it? And the ambassador’s residence was huge. Practically a palace. It was not in central London but rather out past Kensington, where there was quite a bit more room for such grand buildings.

She moved back toward the window, hooking her head around the edge of the curtains again, this time succeeding on the first try. She placed her ear against the glass, listening for…anything. Music? People? Shouldn’t there be some indication that there was a massive party going on in the same building?

Maybe she wasn’t in the ambassador’s residence. No, no, it was a huge building. She could easily be far enough away not to hear anything.

But she could hear footsteps. Her heart slammed in her chest, and she half shuffled, half jumped her way to the bed, managing to flop herself down just as she heard the two locks clicking undone.

As the door opened she began to struggle. It was the only thing she could think of that might explain why she was out of breath.

“I told you not to do that,” her captor scolded. He was carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups. Olivia could smell the tea steeping from across the room. The scent was heavenly.

“I am very civilized, yes?” he asked, lifting the tray slightly before setting it down on a table. “I have worn such a gag before.” He motioned to the one wrapped around her head. “It does make the mouth very dry.”

Olivia just stared at him. She wasn’t sure how she was meant to respond. Literally, how. Surely he knew she could not speak.

“I will remove that so you may have some tea,” he said to her, “but you must remain quiet. If you make a noise, anything louder than a whispered thank you, I will have to make you again unconscious.”

Her eyes widened.

He shrugged. “It is easy enough to do. I did it once, and quite well I must say. You do not even have a headache, I am guessing.”

Olivia blinked. She didn’t have a headache. What had he done to her?

“You will be quiet?”

She nodded. She needed him to remove the gag. Maybe if she could speak with him, she could convince him that this was all a mistake.

“Do not try anything heroic,” he warned her, although his eyes were somewhat amused, as if he could not imagine her startling him in any way.

She shook her head, trying to keep her eyes earnest. They were her only means of communication until he removed the gag.

He leaned forward, reaching out his arms, then he stopped, drawing back. “I think the tea is done,” he said. “We wouldn’t want it to over…how do you say it?”

He was Russian. With that one phrase-How do you say it?-Olivia was finally able to recognize his accent and determine his nationality. He sounded exactly like Prince Alexei.

“Silly me,” the man said, pouring out two cups of tea. “You cannot say anything.” Finally, he moved to her side and removed the gag.

Olivia coughed, and it took her several moments before her mouth was moistened enough to speak, but when she did, she looked directly at her captor and said, “Oversteep.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The tea. You didn’t want it to oversteep.”

“Oversteep.” He repeated the word, appearing to test it out on his tongue and in his mind. He made an expression of approval, then handed her a cup.

She grimaced and gave a little shrug. How did he think she would hold it? Her hands were still tied behind her back.

He smiled, but it wasn’t a cruel smile. It wasn’t even condescending. It was almost…rueful.

Which gave Olivia hope. Not much, but some.

“I’m afraid I don’t trust you enough to untie your hands,” he said.

“I promise I won’t-”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Lady Olivia.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “Oh, I do not think you realize you make false promises, but you will see something you think is an opportunity, and you will be unable to pass it by, and then you will do something foolish, and I will have to hurt you.”

It was an effective way to end the discussion.

“I thought you would come to see my opinion,” he said. “Here, do you trust me enough to allow me to hold your cup?”

She shook her head slowly.

He laughed. “A smart woman. The very best kind. I do not have patience for stupidity.”

“Someone I very much respect told me never to trust a man who tells me to trust him,” Olivia said quietly.

Her captor chuckled some more. “That person-is it a man?”

Olivia nodded.

“He is a good friend.”

“I know.”

“Here.” He brought the cup to her lips. “You have no choice but to trust me in this occasion.”

She took a sip. She didn’t really have a choice, and her throat was dry.

He set the cup down and picked up his own. “They were poured from the same pot,” he said, taking a sip. When he was finished he added, “Not that you should trust me.”

She raised her eyes to meet his and said, “I have no connection to Prince Alexei.”

One corner of his mouth tilted up. “Do you think I am foolish, Lady Olivia?”

She shook her head. “He was courting me, it is true. But he is not any longer.”

Her captor leaned forward a few inches. “You disappeared for nearly an hour this evening, Lady Olivia.”

Her lips parted. She could feel herself blush and prayed that he could not see it in the darkness.

“So did Prince Alexei.”

“He was not with me,” she said quickly.

The gray-haired man took a leisurely sip of his tea. “I do not know how to say this without insulting you,” he murmured, “but you smell like…how do you say it?”

Olivia had a feeling he knew exactly how to say it. And as mortifying as it was, she had no choice but to say, “I was with a man. A different man. Not Prince Alexei.”

This caught his interest. “Really?”

She nodded once, curtly, so as to show him that she did not intend to elaborate.

“Does the prince know?”

“It’s not any of his business.”

He took another sip of tea. “Would he disagree with you about that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Would Prince Alexei think that it was his business? Would he be angry?”

“I don’t know,” Olivia said, trying to be honest. “He has not called upon me for over a week.”

“A week is not such a very long time.”

“He is acquainted with the other gentleman, and I believe he is aware of my feelings for him.”

Her captor sat back, assessing this new information.

“May I have some more tea?” Olivia asked. Because it was good. And she was thirsty.

“Of course,” he murmured, holding forth her cup again.

“Do you believe me?” Olivia asked, once she was done with her drink.

He spoke slowly. “I do not know.”

She waited for him to ask her Harry’s identity, but he did not, which she found curious.

“What will you do with me?” she said quietly, praying she wasn’t a fool for asking.

He had been looking at a spot over her shoulder, but his gaze shifted swiftly back to her face. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“We will see if Prince Alexei still values you. I don’t think we will tell him of your indiscretions. Just in case he still hopes to make you his wife.”

“I don’t think he-”

“Don’t interrupt, Lady Olivia,” he said, his voice holding just enough warning to remind her that he was not her friend, and this was no ordinary tea party.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“If he still desires you, it is in your best interests that he thinks you are a virgin. Do you not agree?”

Olivia held still until it became apparent that this was not a hypothetical question. Finally, she gave a single nod.

“After he pays to get you back”-he gave a fatalistic sort of shrug-“then you can sort it out as you wish. It will be of no interest to me.” He watched her with silent intensity for several moments, then said, “Here, take one more sip of tea before I cover your mouth again.”

“Must you?”

“I am afraid I must. You are far more clever than I had imagined. I cannot leave any weapons at your disposal, including your voice.”

Olivia took her final sip of tea, and then closed her eyes as her captor reaffixed the gag. When he was done, she lay back down, staring stonily at the ceiling.

“I would recommend that you take a rest, Lady Olivia,” he said from the doorway. “It is the only good use of your time here.”

Olivia did not bother to look at him. Surely he did not expect a reply, even one made with only her eyes.

He made no more comment as he shut the door. Olivia listened to the clicks of the two locks, and then finally, for the first time during her ordeal, she wanted to cry. Not to struggle, not to rage, just to cry.

She felt the tears, silent and hot, slide along each temple, down to the pillow below. She couldn’t wipe her face. Somehow that seemed the worst sort of indignity.

What was she supposed to do now? Lie here and wait? Rest, as her captor had suggested? It was impossible; the inaction was killing her.

Harry must have noticed that she was gone by now. Even if she had only been unconscious for a few minutes, he would have had to have noticed. She’d been locked in this room for at least an hour.

But would he know what to do? He had been a soldier, it was true, but this was no battlefield, with clear, well-labeled enemies. And if she was still in the ambassador’s residence, how would he question anyone? More than half of the servants spoke only Russian. Harry could say please and thank you in Portuguese, but that wasn’t going to get him far.

She was going to have to save herself, or at the very least, do her best to make it easy for someone else to save her.

She swung her legs off the bed and sat up, placing her moment of pity firmly behind her. She couldn’t sit here and do nothing.

Perhaps there was something she could do about her bindings. They were firmly tied, but not so tight as to dig into her skin. Maybe she could reach her ankles with her hands. It would be awkward, since she’d have to bend backwards, but it was worth a try.

She lay on her side and curled her legs up behind her, reaching back…back…

There. She had it. It wasn’t rope but rather a strip of fabric, tied in an extremely tight knot. She groaned. It was the sort of thing she’d more likely cut through than attempt to work open.

She’d never had patience for this sort of thing. It went with the embroidery she hated, and the lessons she’d skipped…

If she could get this knot undone, she’d learn French. No, she’d learn Russian! That would be even more difficult.

If she could get it undone, she’d finish Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron. She’d even find the one about the mysterious colonel and read that one, too.

She’d write more letters, and not just to Miranda. She’d deliver charity boxes, not just pack them. She would bloody well complete everything she started.

Everything.

And there was no way she was going to fall in love with Sir Harry Valentine and not marry him.

No way at all.