Her eyes narrowed as she turned to Grentham, who had moved to the sideboard, where a set of decanters sat on a silver tray.

  “Bloody hell, where the devil have you been?” Her voice was shaking with fury. “None of us would have been in mortal peril if you had deigned to give us a way to contact you. Instead, you treat us like pawns on your cursed chessboard, to be casually sacrificed in order to play out your ultimate strategy?”

  Grentham didn’t answer. Crystal clinked against crystal as he splashed a measure of whisky into two glasses and carried them over to the sofa.

  Arianna hitched herself up against the pillow. “I think you are being a trifle harsh.”

  Sophia bit her lip.

  The minster set one of the glasses on the tea table and, crouching down, coaxed Arianna to take a few small sips from the other.

  “Ummph.” She leaned back with a sigh. “Whisky has a way of burning the cobwebs from the cockloft.”

  “That’s the intention.” Grentham eased himself into the side chair and took a long swallow of his own drink. And then, to Arianna’s surprise, he leaned forward, shoulders slumping in surrender, and took his head in his hands.

  The room went utterly still.

  Sophia fisted her hands in her skirts, looking as though she had been punched in the gut.

  “I’m aware that I owe all of you an apology,” he said in a very un-Grentham-like voice. “Just as I’m aware that no words can mitigate the pain and duress that I’ve put you through.”

  Arianna felt her breath seize in her lungs. She had had never heard him sound so . . . vulnerable.

  “My intentions were to protect you all from any association with me, but from the start I made a mull of it, with one miscalculation after another.” He chuffed a humorous laugh. “Perhaps my enemies are right to seek my demise. If I’ve lost my edge, I don’t deserve to be in my current position.”

  Silk rustled as Sophia shifted her stance and angled her gaze into the shadows. The darkness didn’t quite hide the tears pearled on her lashes.

  “We all make mistakes, Percival. It’s what makes us human,” murmured the dowager. “”And I, for one, am exceedingly glad to discover you are human.” A smile glimmered in her eyes. “I confess, at times, I’ve had my doubts.”

  His shoulders quivered as he repressed a laugh. But before he could say anything, the sudden scrabbling of claws over the parquet floor was followed by a streak of brindled fur crossing the carpet and hurtling into the minister’s lap.

  “Woof.” Hobbes bared his sharp little teeth in a canine grin.

  “Dogs are usually a very good judge of people,” said Arianna as the terrier’s pink tongue flicked a sloppy kiss to his erstwhile master’s cheek. “We’ll give Hobbes the benefit of the doubt.”

  Sophia cleared her throat with a soft cough. “H-how did you know we were in danger?”

  “Lady Marone-Cinzano and I had been working through her network of informants here in Paris to unravel what the miscreants were planning. She got word of a trap being set for Lady Saybrook, and was able to reach me in the nick of time.”

  He kept his eyes on Arianna rather than meet Sophia’s gaze. “I assumed you wouldn’t hesitate to try to stop Orlov, so I rushed directly to the montagne-russe.” A pause. “I fail to see how anyone would voluntarily choose to subject themselves to the experience of hurtling down a set of metal rails.”

  “Most people find a frisson of danger adds a little excitement to their lives,” replied Arianna.

  He chuffed a low snort.

  “Well, now that we’ve cleared the air of emotions, let us get down to brass tacks.” Constantina thumped her cane to get everyone’s attention. Even Hobbes sat back and perked up his ears. “Saybrook needs to be informed about what happened. And Percival, you ought to know what Wellington’s plans are concerning the tsar, so it’s imperative that you leave for the duke’s headquarters without delay.”

  “I can’t in good conscience leave you ladies unprotected,” he replied. The dowager had mentioned that neither footman had yet returned. “I trust that the duke and Saybrook will have plans well in hand.”

  “I’ll stay,” volunteered Fitzroy. “I’m a good shot, and have shown that I’m handy with my fives.”

  “Your fists are like hammers,” said Sophia. “But the minister is more at risk than we are. The enemy is getting desperate—they’ll be looking to deliver the coup de grace in order to salvage their plans. So I really think you should go with him.”

  “I agree,” added Arianna. “You need not worry that we will get into any mischief. I intend to seek my bed and slip into a deep slumber.” She patted back a yawn. “I doubt that the devil himself would be able to rouse me.”

  Grentham hesitated.

  “Gather your coat, Mr. Fitzroy, and fetch some fresh ammunition from the pistol case,” commanded Sophia. She moved to Grentham and touched a fingertip to his brow to brush back a lock of hair.

  A fleeting gesture, and yet Arianna could almost hear the crackle of unseen electricity at the connection.

  “Come, sir. I’ll see you out. And then I shall check that all the doors and windows are securely fastened before returning.”

  As Grentham rose without comment, she caught the flicker of hope in his eyes.

  Perhaps all was not lost, she mused. In her experience, love had proved to be remarkably resilient.

  The soft tap-tap of the dowager’s cane on the carpet drew her back to the moment. Constantina settled into the chair just vacated by the minister, a look of concern clouding her gaze. “How are you, my dear? Amid all the distractions of strategy and consequences, I haven’t had a chance to say how . . . how . . .” Her words gave way to a watery sniff.

  “As Grentham said, my skull is just as strong as my stubbornness.” Her lips quirked. “I shall remind Sandro to be grateful of that when he begins to ring a peal over my head.”

  “We all have much for which to be thankful.” The dowager shuddered. “When I think how close you all came to disaster . . .”

  ‘But we didn’t,” she said quickly. “And now that Sandro has the missing pieces of the puzzle—Sir Augustus, the bridge plot, proof of Orlov’s perfidy—I’ve no doubt that he and the duke will have all the miscreants rounded up by morning.”

  “And then there is London,” mused Constantina.

  At the moment, London felt very, very far away.

  “Armed with the information we have now, Saybrook, supported by Wellington, will have no trouble convincing the government that accusations against Grentham were part of a nefarious plot to seize power and profit by selling influence over Britain’s foreign policy to the highest bidder.”

  She yawned again, drawing a concerned mother-hen clucking from the dowager.

  “Let me help you upstairs—”

  “I’ll do it.” Sophia re-entered the parlor. Her flushed cheeks seemed to signal that the first steps of rapprochement had been taken.

  Arianna hoped so. Grentham had made some dangerous mistakes, but he was inexperienced in having to balance passion with pragmatism. Perhaps he had learned some fundamental lessons.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, accepting her friend’s hand up. For an instant, the floor seemed to be buckling beneath her feet, but she managed to regain her equilibrium, and took a tentative step forward.

  Constantina thrust out her cane. “Here—take this.”

  “Good Heavens, I’m not in danger of expiring,” grumbled Arianna. Nonetheless, she took the stick and smiled. “However, you’re right. Discretion is the better part of valor. I’d prefer not to repeat falling flat on my face.”

  They managed the stairs and the short walk down the corridor to the master bedchamber.

  “Shall I help you into your nightrail?” asked Sophia.

  “No,” she replied firmly. “Thank heavens for male clothing. I’ve no corset to unlace or endless procession of tiny buttons to undo. So if you don’t mind, I’d rather just say good night.” She winced as the dull pounding in her head became more pronounced. “Or is it already morning?”

  “You’ll ring if you need anything?” pressed Sophia.

  “Yes, yes. Go.” Arianna made shooing gestures. “You both need your sleep, too.”

  A sigh slipped from her lips, as the door clicked shut. The siren song of Morpheus was growing tantalizingly loud, and her limbs were starting to feel as heavy as lead. Taking a perch on the edge of the bed, she kicked off her boots and shucked off her breeches. As she tugged off her jacket, the weight of her hidden pocket pistol thumped against her hip.

  “Ouch.” Arianna pulled it from the inner pocket and placed it on the night stand, making a face as she recalled Orlov’s sudden attack. The finest weapons in the world weren’t worth a spit if one didn’t stay alert to danger. Concern for her friends had caused her to let down her guard.

  “I won’t make that mistake again,” she promised herself as she pulled her shirt over her head and then slipped on her nightrail.

  The candle flickered as she threw back the coverlet and slipped between the sheets.

  “But enough of dangers and deceptions.” Drawing a quick breath, she blew out the flame and wrapped herself in the sweet oblivion of sleep.

  Chapter 23

  Hot breath, gnashing teeth—she could feel the monstrous beast clawing ever closer. Faster, I must run faster! And yet her legs seemed mired in molten lead , Thrashing, kicking, willing herself to escape—

  Arianna awoke with a start, her pulse pounding, her limbs tangled in the bedsheets. It took her a wild moment to realize it was naught but a bad dream.

  Drawing a steadying breath, she sat up against the twisted pillows. Soft flutters of moonlight showed the familiar contours of the bedchamber, all slumbering peacefully.

  “Flighty peagoose,”Arianna muttered in disgust. In the past, the aftermath of a struggle had never rattled her nerves. She wasn’t about to start imagining that monsters were lurking in the armoire.

  And yet, her heart refused to stop thudding against her ribs.

  “Damn—”

  A tiny creak sounded in the outer room, as if some weight had pressed down upon on of the floorboards.

  “Specters,” she whispered.

  But then it came again.

  The mansion was old, and it was no wonder that the boards, like crotchety ancient crones, would groan and grumble in their sleep . . . Arianna waited for reason to quiet her jumpiness. Still, her muscles refused to relax.

  Throwing off the covers, she stood up, hoping the feel of the solid well-waxed wood beneath her feet would ground her in reality.

  “The only threat is in my head.” Which was, she admitted, still aching like the devil. So perhaps that explained her flights of fancy. But now that she was up, she decided to prove to her overwrought imagination that all was well.

  After slipping her silk wrapper over her nightrail, Arianna took a step, and then some niggling little voice impelled her to turn and take up the pistol. It made her feel a little foolish, but what harm could it do?

  Another few steps brought her to the door leading out to the sitting room. It was slightly ajar. A lick of chill air teased against her cheek as she eased it open a few more inches to venture a peek. The escritoire, the settee, the two tufted armchairs set by the hearth . . . they all seemed to stare back at her in silent mockery.

  Muttering an oath, Arianna abandoned her tip-toeing and marched into the room.

  A low laugh rumbled from the shadowed nook by the bookcase.

  “I was coming for you, but here you are, walking straight into my arms again.” Orlov slid out of the blackness. He was holding Sophia in front of him, one arm locked around her throat . . .

  And the point of a wicked-looking knife pressed against her jugular.

  “It’s me you want, not her,” said Arianna calmly. “Let her go, and I’ll come with you quietly.”

  “I’ve experienced your filthy promises, Lady Saybrook. Remember?” The sharpened steel pressed harder against Sophia’s flesh, drawing a bead of blood. “And this poxy she-bitch has shot me twice.”

  It was only then that she noticed that a strip of dark cloth, cut from the hem of his coat, was wrapped as a crude bandage around the bicep of his knife arm.

  “So I assure you, neither of you are going to leave this room alive. It’s a pity I can’t make your deaths slow and exquisitely painful, but have no fear—you will suffer for all your infernal meddling.”

  “The first scream will bring our footmen—both experienced partisan fighters from the Spanish Peninsula,” said Arianna.

  Your footmen haven’t returned yet. As for Lady Sterling . . .”

  Constantina! “You beast. If you’ve harmed her—”

  “That’s far enough.” Orlov brandished his weapon as she took an involuntary step toward him. “No, she’s merely bound, gagged and locked in her armoire. Much as I was tempted to smother her with a pillow while she slept, given her relationship to the earl and her French diplomat paramour, I may need her as a hostage if our plans don’t work out.”

  “They won’t,” said Sophia, now that the knife was no longing pricking against her throat. “Surely you realize that once again we’ve bested you—”

  Arianna hissed a warning to stop. It was madness to stick a pitchfork in the devil’s arse.

  Thankfully, her friend fell silent. Still the retort earned a vicious squeeze that left her gasping for breath.

  “You’re a pragmatist, Prince Orlov,” said Arianna in a rush. “If you harm us, you’re a dead man. Saybrook will hunt you down and kill you. Let us go, and I’ll convince him not to seek revenge.”

  “Ha—let him try, and we shall see who ends up in the grave.” His snarled bravado, however, held a hint of uncertainty.

  Keep him talking. Time was their ally. Orlov was ablaze with fury, and yet fear was tempering the flames.

  And nervous men were prone to make mistakes.

  “Think on it, sir,” she pressed. He was a brute, but he was also a clever man at surviving. “Your life for ours. It seems a smart trade.”

  His lidded eyes narrowed. She could tell he was thinking it over.

  Arianna waited. The knife was still too close to Sophia’s throat for her to dare grabbing the pistol from her pocket . . .

  Her eye suddenly caught a small movement in the shadows behind the prince. She flicked a look at Sophia and gave a tiny twitch, hoping her friend would understand the signal.

  “Bah!” exploded Orlov. “Yet more lies!” He took a menacing step toward her, jerking Sophia with him, and waved the knife to punctuate his words.

  In the same instant, Hobbes came hurtling through the gloom and buried his teeth in the back of the prince’s thigh.

  A howl—not the dog’s—tore through the room as Orlov stumbled and spun around in a frantic dance, trying to shake off the terrier’s vise-like jaws.

  He lost his hold on Sophia and she lurched away, losing her footing just as Arianna drew her pistol and took aim.

  Damnation! As she squeezed off a shot, her friend hit up against her side, throwing the bullet wide of its mark.

  The prince regripped his knife, and spreading his stance, twisted to stab at the dog.

  “Hobbes, Hobbes!” cried Arianna. “Let go!”

  The dog released his jaws and darted away in the nick of time.

  “Bloody demon from Hell!” bellowed Orlov. Still brandishing the blade, he whipped out a pistol from his coat pocket with his free hand. The moonlight showed his expression of rage give way to a terrible smile.

  “One shot—and you’ve wasted it.” His bear-like bulk was blocking their escape, and the prince knew it. “Now, let me think . . .” He was clearly savoring the moment. “Who shall I shoot, and who shall I gut?”

  “An interesting question,” replied Arianna, her finger already around the second trigger. “But a moot one.”

  Orlov laughed as she took a bead on his heart. “Do you think me an idiot to fall for such a bluff?” He hadn’t yet bothered to aim his own weapon and cock its hammer. “Or do you perchance have a magic weapon fashioned by English fairies?

  “No.” A burst of red-gold sparks illuminated the room as her whisper gave way to a deafening bang.

  A pale plume of smoke curled up toward the ceiling. “No magic. Just a brilliant innovation made by London’s leading gunsmith.”

  Chapter 24

  “Grâce à Dieu.” Sophia stared down at Orlov’s sightless eyes. “At last, the monster is no longer a threat to anyone.”

  Arianna lowered her double-barreled pistol. Taking a life—even that of a man who was rotten to the core—was something that should shake the soul. But strangely enough, she felt not a twinge of remorse. “It’s not for us to sit in final judgment of his sins. But I confess, I feel the world is a safer place without his evil running amok.”

  “Amen to that,” murmured Sophia as she turned away.

  “Come, we must hurry and free poor Constantina—” began Arianna, only to stop short on seeing a wraithlike figure clad in white appear in the doorway.

  “Is he dead?” demanded the dowager.

  “Yes,” she answered. “But—”

  “Good.” Constantina gave a grim nod and gestured for them to come join her in the corridor. “Let us close the door on a thoroughly despicable man. The authorities shall deal with it in the morning.”

  Seeing that the first glimmer of dawn was not yet teasing at the night sky, Arianna made a face, then reached for her discarded clothing and began to dress. “Morning can’t come soon enough. But as further sleep seems unlikely, shall we go down to the kitchen and fix something hot to drink?”

  “Indeed, I, for one, can’t wait to hear how you escaped.” Sophia bent down to scoop up Hobbes, who had trotted out from the shadows, tail wagging. “Orlov said he locked you in the armoire.”

  “Pfftt.” The dowager gave an airy wave. “The man has—or rather, had—a grossly inflated sense of his own cleverness. The hinges of the armoire are pivot hinges, which means the fastening plates are on the inside of the door. My maid stores my large cosmetic case on one of the shelves. It was child’s play to simply turn my back, work the lid open and find my metal nail file. With that I worked loose the fabric tied around my wrists, and then used it to unscrew one of the doors.”