How to Tame Your Duke(60)

           



       

Locked. He'd locked her inside.

She turned back to the door and rattled the knob again. The key was  still in the lock, tantalizingly close. She pressed her ear against the  glass. Was that shouting? A pistol shot? Or simply merrymaking?

Miss Dingleby. Her mind struggled to grasp it all. Had Miss Dingleby  been working for them all along? Or had she turned at some point,  cloistered in Holstein Castle with its stultifying life, its archaic  customs, its wealth and absolute power over the peasantry around them?

Miss Dingleby. My God, how could she do it? Raise three girls to  womanhood, and then murder their father. And all for a cause, a foolish  and impossible cause, a violent pie in the sky.

Traitor.

Emilie pounded the glass with her fist. Her eyes wandered across the  conservatory, to the chaise longue on which she and Ashland had just  made love. Ashland's formal black tailcoat still lay there on the  cushions, crushed by their heaving bodies.

A distant sound brushed her ears, a crash.

Emilie marched across the conservatory to the chaise. She picked up  Ashland's tailcoat and wrapped it around her left hand as she strode  back across the flower-strewn floor. Without an instant's hesitation,  she punched through the pane of glass next to the knob, reached through  with her right hand, and unlocked the door.

* * *

It took Ashland scarcely half a minute to run back along the garden path  and up the stone steps to the French doors guarding the ballroom, and  in that time his brain formed and discarded half a dozen plans.

Something was going on, that much he could tell. The sounds of music and  tinkling laughter, of the buzz of conversation, had transformed into  cacophony.

Shouts, screams, crashes. The wholesale smash of crystal. Ashland  reached the top step and took in the scene through the glass: a melee of  scrambling silk dresses and surging fists. The door flew open before  him, and a man ran past, heading for the garden. Ashland grabbed him by  the collar. "What's happened? What's the matter?"

The fellow jabbered. "Riot, man! Run while you can!"

"From whom?"

"Footmen! Musicians! A bloody riot!"

Ashland released the man and ran into the ballroom.

The ringing voice of the Duke of Olympia greeted him. "Quiet, everyone!  The police have been called! Quiet! You're in no danger!"

But for once, no one paid attention to that glorious ducal boom. A woman  flung herself at Ashland's chest. "Save me, sir! I shall be murdered!"

Ashland plucked her from his shirt and set her aside. "Calm yourself, madam. It's all quite under control."

A shrill whistle cut through the air, and then a pounding rush of feet.  From the advantage of his six feet five inches of height, Ashland saw a  river of blue pour into the ballroom from the hall. He cast about for  the Duke of Olympia's silver head.

"What the devil's happened? It's Dingleby, isn't it?"

"She wasn't there. No decoy princess, either. Where's Emilie?"

"Locked in the conservatory. She told me . . . Oh, the devil take it.  Dingleby's working for them, after all! She's planned it all out!"  Ashland cast about, but all he could see were policemen.

"Complete balls-up," muttered Olympia. "The footmen, the extra ones Hans  organized, got restless when the princess disappeared. Someone fired a  pistol. My fellows leapt out from the orchestra and . . . Dash it all!"  He wiped his brow. "Start all over again."

"But where's Dingleby?"

"God knows. I'm a blasted fool. I should have known."

Ashland dodged a flying policeman. "Look, I think she's bolted. Emilie found her out, just before she came down to the library."

"Emilie!"

"Offered her a drink of some kind, and Emilie thought it was to rid her  of the baby, who I suppose would be the next blasted heir . . ."

"Baby!"

"Oh, bloody hell. We've got to find Dingleby!"

Olympia turned and let out a whistle. A man ran up in formal dress, one  of the musicians. "Doing the best we can, sir. The damned chaps had the  jump on us. We were waiting for your signal."

"Yes, dash it. Look, Dingleby's turned. The policemen are sorting out  this mess; I want you to take your men and comb the city, do you hear  me? Find Dingleby."

"Yes, sir."

Olympia turned back to him, stepped aside to allow a baton-swinging  policeman to rush past, and said, "Right-ho. Go fetch Emilie and take  her upstairs. You're not to leave her for an instant, do you hear me?  The security of all bloody Europe may hang in the balance. If we allow  her to be captured . . ."                       
       
           



       

But Ashland was already off at a run, his blood turned to cold vapor in  his veins. What if Dingleby had been hiding all along, had seen him take  Emilie to the garden?

What if she had arranged the riot herself, had waited for it to begin, so Ashland would leave Emilie unprotected?

The key. He'd left the bloody key in the lock, so Emilie wouldn't be trapped in case something happened to him.

He flew across the terrace and leapt down the steps. He ran down the  garden path, lungs searing, and staggered to a stop in front of the  conservatory door.

Broken glass glittered in the moonlight. The door stood ajar, wavering slightly in a breath of wind.

"Emilie!" he howled.

As his voice died away into the distant shouts from the ballroom, the sound of running footsteps reached his ears.

He spun around.

"Sir! Oh, sir!"

A maid was running up, clutching her cap to her head, her crisp black-and-white uniform springing from the shadows.

"Who's that?" he barked.

"Oh, sir! It's me, it's Lucy. Lucy from t'Abbey, sir!"

"Lucy!" He grabbed her shoulders. She was heaving for air. "What's the matter? What's happened?"

"It's Her Highness, sir! I come to tell you! You was flying up t'garden that fast, I couldn't keep up!"

Ashland drew a deep breath, willing himself to calm, willing his racing  pulse to quiet. "It's all right, Lucy. Quite all right. What did you  come to tell me?"

"It's Her Highness, sir. I'm sure it's nowt, but it seemed so odd, sir. With t'party going on, and t'feighting."

"What's odd, Lucy? Tell me." His heart was smashing violently against his ribs.

"Why, it's Mr. Simpson, sir."

"Mr. Simpson? My butler? But he's at Eaton Square, isn't he?"

Lucy shook her solemn head. "He did come over here. He did come over  here, sir, just afore t'feight started in t'ballroom. And then I sees  him . . . him and Her Highness . . ."

"What, Lucy?"

"They've gone off together, sir. Off in a hansom cab, as fast as you please."





TWENTY-FIVE




Thank goodness you had the cabman wait around the mews, Mr. Simpson,"  said Emilie. "The carriages have entirely closed up Park Lane."

"Indeed, Your Highness," said Mr. Simpson.

She craned her neck to see around the horse's ears. The cold wind rushed  against her face, heavy with fog. "Can he not go any faster? Every  second counts!"

"Of course, madam."

"Lucy's gone off to find the duke. Oh God! If they've harmed Freddie and  Mary in any way, I'll never forgive myself." She looked down at the  crumpled paper in her hand, crushed in the panic of reading the terse  message.

"If I'd had any idea of the contents of the note, madam, I should of  course have stayed to defend his lordship." Mr. Simpson sounded quite  calm, but then he was trained to remain calm in the face of crisis.

As was she, she reminded herself. She sat back in the cab and tried not  to think of Freddie and Mary in Hans's power, Miss Dingleby's power. As  you read this Note, Lord Frederick Russell and Lady Mary Russell have  been taken into the Custody of the Revolutionary Brigade of the Free  Blood. You will repair at once to 28 Eaton Mews North and await further  instruction.

Await further instruction. What did that mean?

They were trotting smartly down the eastern side of Belgrave Square now.  The traffic had thinned somewhat, and Emilie's belly tightened, as if  the strain of her own muscles could somehow push them faster.

"There was no one at the house when you left?"

Mr. Simpson coughed. "No, madam. The footmen, the maids-all of them were  at Park Lane tonight. Only Mrs. Needle and I were in residence when the  note arrived for you. I took it upon myself to deliver it."

"I'm so terribly sorry. It's all my fault. She knew I'd found her out,  and she must have raced directly over, knowing how much . . . how much I  . . ." Her voice faltered. She couldn't say the words love them, not in  front of Mr. Simpson. "How much His Grace is attached to his son," she  finished, gripping the edge of the wooden door before her.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand, madam."

"No, of course not. Damn it all, can we not go any faster?" She rapped on the trapdoor.