The driver opened. "Yes, ma'am?"
"We're in a dreadful hurry. An emergency. As fast as your horse is able, please!" She looked at Simpson. "Have you any money with you?"
"Yes, madam." An injured air.
"Thank God for that, at least."
Simpson accepted her unladylike language without a flinch. "Yes, madam."
The hansom jolted over a rut in the road and swung left onto Belgrave Place. Only a minute or two, now. Simpson was reaching into his pocket for the fare. Emilie closed her eyes and listened to the rattle of the wheels, to the clop-clop of the horse drawing her closer and closer to . . . what?
It might be a trap. She mouthed the words to herself.
Well, of course it was a trap. That was the point, wasn't it? To gain control of Emilie's person. Freddie, Mary, Ashland, Simpson, poor Mrs. Needle-they were simply innocent collateral. All this planning and danger, all this suffering: It was all because of her, because of who she was.
She'd allowed them to put themselves in harm's way.
Her fault.
The hansom turned again with a sharp jerk, forcing Emilie's eyes open. The paving stones in the mews were rough and deeply rutted, causing the entire vehicle to bounce as they trotted down the length of buildings.
"Twenty-eight, you said?" came the driver's voice through the trapdoor. "Here it is."
The hansom rolled to a stop. Simpson thrust the money through the door, and Emilie was flying off the cab the instant the driver released the doors, tangling in her blue satin ball gown with its princely train. The building stood before her, with its wide carriage door to the left and the servants' entrance to the right. A few wisps of straw lay limp and dirty on the pavement outside.
Her slippers scrabbled over the wet cobbles. She clutched Ashland's tailcoat to her shoulders and staggered to the door and pounded with her fist.
The wooden panel swung open.
She fell forward into the damp-smelling hall. "Freddie! Mary!"
The unmistakable voice of the Marquess of Silverton floated from somewhere above. "Go back, Grimsby! Go now!" The last word was cut off by a thump.
"Freddie! I'm coming!"
"No, Grimsby! Go away! Get Pater! We're all right!"
A small feminine scream, cut short.
"Mary! Oh God!"
The hall was dark, almost perfectly black. Emilie lurched into the gloom with her hands stretched out before her, trying to find the stairs. From behind her came the thump of Simpson's footsteps, then the hiss of gas, and suddenly a ghostly circle of gaslight illuminated the space.
A pair of horses thrust their surprised noses over the stall doors. The duke's fine black landau sat in the middle of the space, polished and ready for a morning turn about the park. Where were the grooms, the servants? Park Lane?
"Freddie?"
"Go, Grimsby!" Another hard thump, a blow on flesh, followed by a grunt of pain.
Emilie looked wildly upward in the direction of the sound.
Freddie and Mary sat back-to-back in the hayloft, bound together with rope. A glowering Hans stood above them, brandishing the rope's end.
A pistol dangled from his other hand.
"Let them go, Hans! I order you!" shouted Emilie in German.
"By what right?" he asked.
"I am your princess, by God!"
"By God, you are not." He spoke calmly, with infinite conviction. "You are a tyrant, and your kind has held sway over the people of Germany long enough. Your time has passed, and you don't even know it. Look at you in your gown, your jewels, your ridiculous yards of silk. What have you done for the betterment of the world? What right do you have to rule over anyone?"
"Look here," said Freddie, "I can't understand a word you've said, but I do know you can't talk to my stepmother in such a fashion."
A voice floated out from the doorway. "Now, now, your lordship. This is no way to conduct a negotiation of such a delicate nature."
Emilie spun around. In the instant before the gaslight winked out into darkness, the image of Miss Dingleby floated before her: eyes bright, one hand reaching for the lamp and the other holding a pistol.
* * *
Ashland found Mrs. Needle in the Eaton Square scullery, bound and gagged. "Where are they?" he demanded, the instant the rag came free from her mouth.
"Oh, sir! I'm that sorry! He took them off, he did. He was in like a flash, right through t'area door." She worked her jaw, wincing.
Ashland pried with his desperate left hand at the ropes around her wrists. "Who? Who took them?"
"A great German fellow, he was. Scarce a word of English to him. Oh, sir. Has he taken Lord Freddie and her ladyship?"
"I fear he has, Mrs. Needle. You must tell me everything you know. Was there anyone with him? A tall woman with dark hair?"
"Nay, not anyone, sir. They went off through t'back, they did."
The ropes loosened at last. Ashland tugged them off and rubbed Mrs. Needle's wrists, one by one. "The back! To the mews, then?"
"Why, aye, sir!"
"By God." He rose to his feet. "Mrs. Needle, ring Scotland Yard at once. Ask for a chap named Parker, tell them it's urgent, tell them it's from me. Parker will know what to do."
"Aye, sir! Right away, sir!"
He ducked under the doorway to the hall. "And Mrs. Needle?"
"Aye, sir?"
"If Simpson and Her Highness arrive here, for God's sake don't let them leave."
* * *
In the absence of light, Emilie's mind cleared of anxiety. She had learned, in her long hours of blindfolded conversation with the Duke of Ashland, how to accept the loss of sight. How to compensate. How to listen and smell, to stretch out the net of her senses. Next to her, Mr. Simpson reached out to lay a protective hand on her arm; above her, Mary cried out.
But Emilie knew Miss Dingleby hadn't moved from the entrance. She still stood there, with her pistol in one hand, unable to aim and fire it in the darkness.
What was she waiting for?
"Miss Dingleby!" Emilie heard her own voice ring out, clear and confident, and the sound gave her strength. "You have what you want. I'm here. Release Freddie and Mary, and I'll go with you willingly."
A slight shuffle along the floorboards. "My dear, whatever do you mean?"
"I know you're working with Hans. I know you're in league with these anarchists, my father's murderers. I daresay you have some sort of plan for me, or else you'd have killed me outright by now. Whatever it is, I stand ready. Let them go."
Miss Dingleby laughed in the darkness. "Good gracious! What an inventive mind you have. Plans for you? My plans are only to keep you safe. I've spent the last few hours tracking down our German friend here, once I learned he'd left his post in Park Lane. Thank goodness one of us thought to bring a pistol along. Or had you hoped to bribe him with your sapphires?"
Emilie had quite forgotten about the sapphires. She put her hand to her neck. There they were, cold and heavy, worth a fortune. She wrapped her fingers around them, as if they were an anchor that might hold her spinning thoughts in place. "The drink. The drink you offered me before the party."
"To refresh you. Really, Emilie! What the devil's come over you? Stand aside, please, so I may deal with Hans without fear of injuring you."
Emilie shook her head. "No. I saw the look in your eye. And Ashland said . . . when he heard about the drink . . ."
"My dear girl, you've put yourself in such a muddle. If I meant to kidnap you, why on earth would I have sent you into Yorkshire? For months? And your sisters. Wouldn't I have kidnapped them, too? You're not making any sense at all."
Emilie forced her brain into logic. "Because of my uncle. Because you had to make him think the danger came from elsewhere, or he would have found you out. He would have stopped you in your tracks." She gasped. "Olympia! He was your real target tonight, wasn't he? He was the one you meant to kill. You could have put a bullet through him tonight, and no one would have suspected you!"
"I say!" exclaimed Freddie.
"What went wrong tonight, Miss Dingleby? Did you think I'd found you out, and switched plans? Or was Hans disobeying orders, coming to Eaton Square?" She turned in the direction of the hayloft and cast her voice upward into the blackness. "Hans!" she said in German. "What was the plan at Park Lane tonight?"
Silence.
"So he is working with you," said Emilie, turning back. "It was your idea, luring me here tonight while everyone else was at the party. Your secondary plan, because the first went awry when I refused the drink."