She darted a look in Michael’s direction to gauge his reaction, but his expression was inscrutable. “If he were,” she continued, “it would be impossible for him to conceal his identity while providing them with information only the British would be able to know about.”
Passing a group of people who were on their way toward the ballroom, they nodded politely and exchanged a few pleasantries before moving on. “There’s something else afoot here, but it makes little sense to me,” she murmured. “I believe William is working on discovering something terribly important.” She lowered her voice even further. “Mr. Finch is being held prisoner somewhere in this building, so clearly his position has been compromised. What I cannot explain, is the letter he sent to Percy.”
They fell silent again as they passed yet another group of people.
“It’s possible that even Mr. Finch was not privy to your brother’s ideas,” Michael muttered. “Perhaps your brother thought it best not to allow anyone into his confidence. Such actions would very likely have made Mr. Finch suspicious—especially if they’re as good friends as I’ve been led to believe that they are.”
“You may have a point,” Alexandra acknowledged with a great deal of thoughtfulness. “But whatever the case, he can’t remain here. They intend to remove him to La Conciergerie. Once that is done, it will be much more difficult for us to gain access.”
Michael and Ryan both groaned in trepidation of what she was about to suggest.
“We’ll have to rescue him,” she said. “Tonight.”
The two men froze in their tracks, their sudden stop jolting Alexandra to a halt. “I knew you were mad,” Michael hissed between clenched teeth. “But I had no idea that you were suicidal.”
“Come now, lads.” She sent them both a bright smile. “Don’t tell me that the thrill of adventure doesn’t excite you. Yes, there will be some risk involved, but it would be terribly boring and hardly adventurous at all if there were not. Now, are you with me or not?”
Michael and Ryan sent each other a hesitant look. “I believe I’ll have to give you a paddle for your wedding,” Ryan told Michael. “This girl is in dire need of a good spanking if you ask me.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Alexandra grinned, her eyes already brimming with excitement. “So, how do you suggest that we proceed?”
Both men stared at her as if she belonged in an asylum. “Er . . . Alex,” Michael drawled. “This was your idea . . .”
“Yes, I know.” She looked at them both expectedly, her gaze shifting from one to the other while they in turn continued to regard her in stupefied disbelief. “Oh . . . you expect me to have a plan?” They both nodded dumbfoundedly. “All right, I suppose I can improvise if you’re not up to it.”
Before either man had a chance to defend himself in the face of such an insult, Alexandra ploughed ahead, relentlessly. “Ryan, you must return to the ballroom to warn William—make it clear to him that Bertrand is sniffing about, and that he needs to watch his back. Also tell him that if he has discovered something vital, he should consider informing Sir Percy of it as soon as possible.
“Michael and I will see to Mr. Finch. We’ll meet you outside and head on back to the apartment together.”
Ryan grabbed his sister’s arm and leaned toward her, his face so close to hers that she could smell a hint of champagne upon his breath. “I’ll go with Michael while you speak to William,” he said. “This is far too dangerous for you, Alex. I cannot allow it.”
“Out of the question,” she told him, staring firmly back at him. “Bertrand believes I’m unwell. He’ll expect me to leave. If I return now and he sees me speaking with William after all the questions he’s just asked me about him— No, it’s too obvious.”
“And what of me? I am not obvious?”
“No, Ryan. You are merely his brother, informing him that we were forced to depart earlier than we intended. You will let him know that my husband is tending to me after I fell ill and that we’re awaiting you downstairs. You simply wished to make your farewells. Now, somewhere along the line, you’ll have to pass on the message about Bertrand. Do you think you can manage it?”
Ryan looked about ready to salute. Alex realized she was like a general giving orders. “Yes, Alex, I believe I can.” Squaring his shoulders, he turned and walked away.
“There’s not a moment to lose,” Alexandra said as she caught hold of Michael’s arm and steered him toward the stairs.
“Do you mind telling me how you discovered all of this information,” he asked, striving to keep up with her quick steps.
Alexandra shuddered as she thought of how she’d come by it all. “I told you my feminine wiles would work.”
“Good God woman! I hope you didn’t have to bare yourself.”
“It came awfully close as a matter of fact, but it seems I simply couldn’t stomach the man.” She threw Michael a grim smile. “Fortunately, I’d already learned everything I needed to know by the time I vomited for all of Paris to see. Except of course for the prisoner’s name.”
“What?” Michael skidded to a halt behind Alexandra just before they reached the stairs.
“We can’t go that way,” she muttered, ignoring his question and now peevish attitude. “There must be a minor staircase we can use without being seen. Come along. This way.”
They turned left and headed down another corridor until they reached a rather plain looking door at the end. “What do you mean you don’t know the prisoner’s name, Alex? How do you even know it’s Mr. Finch? For that matter, how will we even find him in this place? He could be anywhere.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Michael, stop being so difficult. How many English spies do you suppose Bonaparte is housing? Even if it’s not Mr. Finch, should we just leave him here in the hands of the French, to torture while we live happily ever after? Hm?” She challenged him with her eyes, her hand on the doorknob while she waited for his response.
“I see your point,” he admitted.
“Good. Now let me see . . .” she opened the door onto a narrow stairwell. “My lord, it seems we are in luck.”
Alexandra beamed a smile in his direction that made him clutch at the wall for dear life. His legs were ready to give out beneath him. She was completely disarming as she stood there now with her big round eyes, imploring him to follow. Heaven help him—he would have followed her to hell and beyond in that instance.
“In answer to your other question, the dungeons tend to be below ground,” she said. “Shall we have a look?”
Muttering an oath, Michael couldn’t help but ask himself how this mad woman had managed to drag him along on this haphazard, wild goose chase, at the very core of the enemy’s lair in the first place. If this was what love did to a man, one had to wonder how the human race had ever survived, because this was plain and simple lunacy.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Pierre Dupont was seated on the painfully uncomfortable chair his superior had issued him. Why somebody needed to remain outside the Englishman’s cell was beyond him—he was hardly about to make a run for it, and nobody would be mad enough to try and rescue him. Besides, the door was firmly locked with the key that dangled from his belt.
His duties pertaining to the prisoner were few. Occasionally, he would have to refill the man’s water jug, serve him his meal, or empty his chamber pot—the latter being the least appetizing of the three by far.
Well, at least the sous sol of the Tuileries Palace was comfortable compared to most. The floors were marble, the ceilings high and vaulted. Grand pillars surrounded by cherubs flanked the main stairway leading down to it and the cells were not only clean but also contained proper beds with sheets upon them.
Hell. The prisoners are better off here than most of the Frenchmen I know are in their own homes.
The sound of clicking footsteps approaching at a run caught his attention. He straightened his back and rose to his feet, his hand falling automatically to the hilt of his sword.
What the—?
Coming toward him, her hair in disarray, her eyes wide open in fear, and her bloodied hands pressing against her midsection, was a woman—the loveliest he’d ever seen.
“Aidez moi!” she cried, rushing toward him. He felt momentarily stunned. “You must help me, I beg you.”
Pierre couldn’t help but be shocked. He wasn’t expecting a damsel in distress with a stab wound, no less, to be roaming about in that part of the palace. “Madame, what happened? Who did this to you?” he asked as he hurried to her aid.
“It was a lover’s quarrel.” Her voice was breathless as she clutched at his outstretched arm for support. “His wife . . . oh God . . . she saw us!”
The woman’s legs buckled beneath her, but Pierre managed to catch her in an awkward hold. The poor thing needed help, but how was he to . . .
Before he managed to complete that thought, something hard came crashing down over his head, his eyes rolled backward, and everything went dark.
Alexandra landed in a heap on the floor when the guard released her. “Well done,” she said, looking up at Michael. He was rubbing the fist he’d used to render the man unconscious. “I told you a bit of drama would serve to distract him.”
“So you did,” Michael conceded. “Do you have the key?”
With a big sigh and a shake of her head, she began fumbling about for the key, all the while muttering a string of oaths that were only occasionally interrupted by words to the effect of useless git and ungrateful oaf. Michael merely watched her in silent amusement, his arms crossed in front of him. If she would have looked up at him at that very moment, she would have seen his lips twitch.
“Here!” she finally snapped, thrusting a large iron key toward him. “See if it fits.”
Michael stooped to snatch up the key and then placed it in the lock. He turned it, the lock clicked, and the door swung easily open to reveal a large spacious room beyond it. “Mr. Finch?”
A man of medium height with straw colored hair and a full beard rose from a chair. A single candle flickered on top of a worm eaten table, sending puffs of smoke toward the ceiling. The man stepped toward Michael. “Yes, I’m Andrew Finch,” he said. “And who, may I ask, are you?”
“I’m Michael Ashford, Earl of Trenton, come to rescue you. “And this . . .” he gestured toward the doorway expecting to find Alexandra standing there, but there was nothing but empty space. “Alex?”
“Do you mind giving me a hand, or do you plan to stand about chatting while I do all the work?” an annoyed voice called from the hallway.
“Excuse me a moment,” Michael told Andrew as he popped his head back out the door. Alexandra was bent over, pulling frantically on one of the guard’s arms in an attempt to haul him along with her, but every time she stepped forward, her slippers slipped backward on the slippery marble floor. Michael tried desperately not to laugh at the sight of her walking in place, her face scrunched up in determination while the lax guard shifted only from side to side. It was like watching Sisyphus and his infamous rock played out in a cloud of lace and ribbons.