“I noticed this house was closed down when we were here earlier.” Trev ran his penknife’s blade around the edge of the window casing to free it from the coat of paint that held it closed. “But we’ll have to be quiet, just in case.”
He drew a deep breath and gave the sticky window another shove. This time it gave, rising with a creak of wood on wood. Trevelyn disappeared into the opening and waggled his fingers for Artemisia to follow.
Well, he is trained in this sort of thing, she reasoned. She hitched up her skirt and followed him through the dark portal.
Chapter 25
“Careful,” he whispered as her feet touched the floor. “We still need to move quietly. If there are any servants left, they’ll most likely be in the rooms off the cellar kitchen.”
“Not in the garret?”
“My father’s servants who live in the highest rooms of his townhouse suffer with cold or bake with heat depending on the season, but the ones housed near the kitchen are comfortable year round,” Trev explained. “The earl and I battled over this several times, but he refuses to do anything about it.” He shook his head, as if to clear his mind of thoughts of his sire. “If you had your choice of a cold garret or a cozy kitchen fire, which would you pick?”
“I see your point.” Her manor house was arranged differently from the earl’s townhouse. Her home had a multitude of fireplaces and windows, even in the topmost storey. Surely Cuthbert would have spoken up if there was a problem. The stiff-lipped butler certainly never restrained himself when he thought her behavior required comment. But just in case, she made a mental note to see to the condition of her own servants’ rooms as soon as possible.
Trev bent to unbuckle his boots. Then in his stocking feet, he picked Artemisia up and sat her down on the flat broad top of a grand piano. The strings inside the casing vibrated softly in a cluster of tones as air currents soughed over them.
“Oh!” Artemisia felt Trevelyn’s hand on her ankle. He started to remove her slipper. A fizz of excitement shot up her leg and stayed to simmer in her feminine core. Part of it was his casual familiarity, the way his fingers lingered over her instep in a caress. But part of her prickling skin was the excitement of the forbidden. Cuthbert had chided her for scandalous behavior often enough. This was the first time she could rightly be accused of something criminal.
Trevelyn was right. Danger was exciting. The fact that breaking and entering set her pulse dancing might trouble her if she examined it long enough, so she shoved the thought aside.
“Come.” Trev lifted her from her perch and set her back on her feet. He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead and then took her hand to lead her through the stark landscape of gray shadows and white muslin, ghostly in the moonlight.
They slipped wraithlike between the lumps of covered furniture toward the base of the stairs. Just like the ambassador’s residence, this home was organized around the central staircase. Artemisia placed a hand on the smooth brass rail and followed Trevelyn up the curving stairway.
A round window at each landing lit their way. They climbed past the parlor that was the mirror image of the ambassador’s and past the floor that held the bedrooms. Their trek came to a dead end in a locked door.
“Oh dear! Will we have to break it down?”
“Not as long as we have the right tools.” Trev produced a slender pick to work in the keyhole. The lock proved only a minor deterrent. Trevelyn Deveridge indeed had skills that didn’t become a gentleman, but his bow as he held the door open for her would have done credit to a prince.
“Ordinarily, I’d defer to a lady, but in this instance perhaps you’ll allow me to go first,” Trevelyn said with a light-hearted attempt at gallantry.
Artemisia appreciated the effort. Staring into the gaping blackness, she dimly made out a set of ladder-like steps disappearing into the rafters. She wondered if there might be bats. With a shudder, she waggled her fingers toward the entrance. “No, by all means, please lead the way.”
Trevelyn lit the candle in the tin stand that had been left at the base of the steps and then climbed into the void. The small flame sent shadows dancing into the rough timbers under the eaves. Trevelyn disappeared from her view for a moment, and then the light stopped wavering when he’d obviously set the candle down. His shadowed face appeared in the opening, backlit by the guttering flame. He reached a hand down to her. “Coming? Or have you changed your mind?”
As an artist, she was creature of light. She even preferred to sleep with a low fire or a lamp burning should she wake in the night. Strange dark places always made her uneasy. And dark places that might house flying rodents were even worse.
“No, of course I haven’t,” she snapped, more brusque than she’d intended. She tried to disguise the tightness in her chest as pique rather than fear. “You need me.”
“Yes, I do,” she thought she heard him mutter softly before raising his voice in a stage whisper. “Give me your hand and don’t mind the cobwebs, then.”
He grasped her wrist and neatly lifted her up with him in a single motion so that her feet barely grazed the steep stairs. A sticky strand tickled across her cheek. Definitely cobwebs, but nothing with wings that she could detect. For as far as the meager light of the candle shined, she saw only odds and ends of household goods—a dress-maker’s dummy propped against a rafter, a canting spinning wheel, and countless dusty trunks.
“Careful now.” Trev retrieved the candlestick and took her hand. “Watch your step. There’s no flooring here, just open joists. Try not to slip between them. There’s no guarantee you won’t go right through the ceiling plaster.”
His hand was a warm anchor. Toes curling to grip each step, she moved from timber to timber behind Trev as he led the way down the long dark space toward the ambassador’s residence. At one point, he stopped and swept the candle behind him, indicating with a jerk of his head that she should look downward. Thin cracks of light were visible in the plastered space between the timbers.
A gas lamp was burning below them. Someone was still awake in Kharitonov’s home.
Trev put a finger to his lips and settled into a crouch, cocking his head to listen. Artemisia lowered herself to sit on a chest balanced on two timbers. She strained to hear.
At first, there was only the creaking groans of settling lathe and plaster common to all houses. Then came small skittering noises of tiny claws scurrying away from their source of light. A mouse she could stand, though she didn’t want to be surprised by one. The dust cloud she raised from sitting on the chest tickled her nostrils. She brought a scented hanky to her nose and successfully fought back a sneeze, but only by intense concentration.
Then she heard the voices. They were muffled, but one of the speakers became agitated and the decibel level increased appreciably. She followed the conversation beneath her feet with horrified fascination.
“I tell you, there’s no point in torture. Shipwash either doesn’t know or can’t be broke,” a voice she thought she recognized was saying. “There are some who can’t, I guess. If you want my advice—“
A vicious smack stopped the speaker. Artemisia flinched at the sound.
“When we need adwice from traitor, we tell you,” Ambassador Kharitonov said, no longer the charming diplomat. “If Lubov and Oranskiy force information from Beddington’s man, I will not make—how you say?--fuss over how.”
“But the duchess might not make the trade if you’ve abused him.” The speaker sniffed loudly. “She’s on good terms with the Queen on account of her art. She’ll make trouble for you once she learns you’re behind this.”
“And how shall she know? You will tell her?” the ambassador demanded. His tone was very different from the genial host who’d plied Trev with vodka only a few hours earlier. Clearly, Artemisia could take no one at face value anymore.
“No, no, of course not.” Fear sent the voice straying into another octave. “But Beddington will know and he won’t keep mum, you can be sure of that. Whatever he knows, she’ll know.”
“Then Mr. Beddington we kill same as Shipwash when time comes,” Kharitonov said icily. “Perhaps, we do favor and send trouble-making stepmother to fishes with them, da?”
Artemisia’s hand went involuntarily to her chest. Trev’s grip on her other one tightened. She’d hoped her ears were playing tricks on her, but that hope died with the ambassador’s deadly offer. The other speaker really was Felix after all.
“What? No need for such drastic measures, I’m sure,” Felix said. “I’ll handle the duchess. Forget I mentioned it.”
Artemisia could almost smell his fear. It was clear her stepson had fallen in with the worst of companions and now had no clue how to extricate himself. At least, he hadn’t entirely thrown her to the wolves, or in this case, to the fishes, but he’d placed her in a deucedly difficult spot. Whether he realized it or not, in bartering for the key, Felix was hip-deep in the traffic of national secrets.
Men had been tried for treason and hanged for less.
Artemisia was so afraid for him, she was seized by the urge to give him a good shake. His father, the old duke, would have been mortified by Felix’s actions.
While she stewed over her stepson, the dust she and Trev had stirred in the attic began to make her nose twitch. She tried to suppress it again, but when a body wants to sneeze, it’s almost impossible to gainsay it a second time. She managed to cover her nose and mouth, but the sneeze erupted in an imploded squeak.
The voices beneath them fell silent. A booted tread clicked across the floor and stopped directly beneath her. She didn’t dare draw another breath. Trevelyn squeezed her hand, pleading for silence. Her heart hammered so loudly, she was sure the men below her would hear it.
“A flymouse. Or rat maybe,” a different voice finally said. “Whole city crawling with rats. Tomorrow, I lay out poison.”
“Nyet,” Kharitonov said. “Once we have key, back we go to St. Petersburg. Already I have dismiss English servants. Couldn’t cook anyway. First thing I do back in Mother Russia is have real food. Give me to eat stroganoff and borsch and you can keep kidney pie and stewed eels.”
Artemisia heard a thumping sound and imagined the ambassador pounding Felix’s back with mock affability.
“These pale Englishmen--any slimy thing between two pieces of bread they call sandwich and they eat, eh, Lubov?”
Felix giggled nervously at this slur on his national cuisine and excused himself.
Once he was gone, silence reigned for about a minute. Then the voice Artemisia didn’t know spoke again.
“Before we leave for St. Petersburg, you want me tie up loose end?”
“To kill Felix is waste of time,” the ambassador said dismissively. “Someone will do for us. The boy cheats at cards. Besides, him we own. A duke, bought and paid for, is like hog. We goad him now to do our will. Later, we make the bacon.”
The ambassador laughed at his own wit, then groaned. Artemisia heard the creak of a chair.