“No, madam, he—“ Mr. Shipwash began but was silenced by a clout to his head from Lubov.
Artemisia flinched at the vicious blow, but a small flicker of hope grew in her chest at her assistant’s words. Had Trev won free somehow? But if so, why had he not contacted her? Her small candle of hope guttered.
“If you act for Beddington, you must have key, da?” The ambassador’s gaze turned crafty. “Give me to help you and I release your friend.”
“The key is not with me, but rest assured, I know where it is,” Artemisia said as she flipped her brooch watch up to check the time. “And unless Mr. Shipwash and I leave here together within the next few minutes, another friend of mine will send word that the key is to be destroyed. It’s your choice.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the ambassador, willing herself not to blink. Brinksmanship was not a game she relished, but her hand was so weak. She was obliged to make up for it with bravado.
The tramp of heavy boots echoed in the lime-washed crypt. Another Russian, even bigger than Lubov, rounded the corner to join them. He was carrying something over one shoulder. In the dimness, Artemisia couldn’t make it out. Once he reached the lantern’s light, the man deposited his burden on the stone floor. An inert body flopped bonelessly between her and Kharitonov.
Naresh.
Artemisia’s stomach did a back flip with sick foreboding. Then again with relief, when she saw his chest rise and fall. Only unconscious then.
“Good work, Oranskiy.” Kharitonov said to the newcomer before turning an evil smile on Artemisia. “This was friend who will send for key to be destroyed, da? Better friends you must choose in future, Your Grace.”
“Or less vile enemies,” she spat.
Kharitonov snorted at this. “High marks I give you for courage, madam, but you are—how you English say?—out of your depth. Come. We go now to get key.”
“No, Your Grace. Don’t give it to them,” Mr. Shipwash said. His captor shook him like a rag doll.
“Stop this instant,” she ordered Lubov. “Your Excellency, I must protest. I thought better of you. As a diplomat, you must realize your country’s reputation is in severe jeopardy through your actions. There’s no honor in abusing the defenseless.”
Artemisia doubted her appeal to the ambassador’s sense of decency would be effective. To her surprise, he raised a hand to restrain his lackey.
“Enough, Lubov. Time there will be to play later if Her Grace does not give key ,” he said before turning back to her with lowering brows. “Honor is small matter to diplomat. I am man under orders and not dare disobey. We do what we must do.”
Artemisia detected a smidge of remorse in the sigh that followed, but then the ambassador’s face hardened and he took a step toward her.
“You must give key. Or you force me hurt your friends.”
She bit her lip. The key must not fall into the wrong hands. She owed Trev that. But Kharitonov was right. She was out of her depth. She didn’t have it in her to make this choice. She never should have tried to do this. How could she let Mr. Shipwash and dear Naresh pay for her failing?
“Very well,” she said. “After you have helped Mr. Shipwash and I move Naresh into my waiting hansom, I give you my word I will shout out the location of the key to you as we drive away.”
The ambassador threw his head back and laughed unpleasantly. “Nyet, Your Grace, I will have key first.”
Artemisia knotted her fingers together. She was running out of cards to play.
Kharitonov made a low growl in the back of his throat, impatient at her delay. “Kill the Hindoo.”
“No!” Artemisia fell to her knees, trying to shield Naresh with her own body. “I will take you to the key, but you must not hurt him.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” The ambassador extended a beefy hand to her. “Wise choice. We go now, da? Bring prisoner,” he barked to Lubov.
“What of him?” Oranskiy pointed to Naresh’s prone figure.
“Tie him and leave him,” Kharitonov said. “Him, no one find till morning. By then, we out of England and back to land of borsch and stroganoff. Not too soon either.” He laughed mirthlessly and grasped Artemisia’s arm. “Come, madam.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, but dragged her up the stairs and back through the silent nave. She heard the shuffling of Mr. Shipwash being propelled behind her by Lubov and Oranskiy. For a moment, she thought one of the statues on the right side of the narthex moved. She decided it was only a quirk of moonlight as Kharitonov hurried her through the darkened central aisle. Just before they reached the tall western doors, he broke the silence.
“Where we go, Your Grace?” he asked as if he were offering her a pleasure ride in his barouche.
“Westminster Bridge.” She swallowed back the knot in her throat. It had seemed a good idea at the time. With Cuthbert positioned dead center on the aging structure, he could see an advancing party from any direction. At her word, he was fully prepared to throw the key into the Thames and devil take the hindermost. “But I must warn you, Ambassador, if Mr. Shipwash and I do not present ourselves there unharmed by a certain hour, the key will be destroyed regardless.”
“Then haste we must make, da?”
If only Naresh hadn’t been taken, she might have been able to bluff her way through and see Mr. Shipwash free right there in the crypt. She’d made a mistake of thinking of Kharitonov as the slightly bumbling functionary she’d met at her masquerade. Now that notion was crushed like a bug.
At least part of her plan was still intact. Cuthbert was waiting for them, ready to act at her command.
She just didn’t know now if she could give it.
* * *
As soon as the door closed behind the duchess and the rabble that held her, the statue broke his pose and headed for the crypt at a run. Trevelyn thanked the stars for his training as Larla’s figure model. He doubted he’d have been able to hold himself motionless like that without it.
He’d tried to arrive at St. Paul’s in time to stop Artemisia from going into the crypt. It had taken him longer than he anticipated to liberate a horse from his father’s stable. He was slipping silently through the church’s side yard when Naresh succumbed to the big Russian’s superior size and strength. Trev considered engaging the man in hand-to-hand combat, but he was more interested in Larla’s whereabouts, so Trev followed him and the unconscious Naresh into the cathedral. Thanks to a trick of acoustics, he was able to listen to the conversation in the crypt from the top of the steps.
It took every ounce of his will not to vault down the stone stairs to come to Artemisia’s rescue. He would have happily shaken her till her teeth rattled for going down there alone, but the odds were three against one, and he couldn’t be sure he could extricate her without endangering her further.
Such action violated all his intelligence training. If he followed his instinct and tried to save her from this predicament, he jeopardized his mission to retrieve the key.
What a perfectly vicious little circle.
His gut churned. So this was why the Service recommended men involved in the Great Game remain bachelors. It was too hard to choose between personal and state interests. If push came to shove, he had no doubt Queen and country would fall a distant second to the Duchess of Southwycke.
“Westminster Bridge,” he repeated under his breath. On horseback, he could beat the ambassador and his captives there by taking a few judicious shortcuts. But he needed reinforcements now that he knew where to send them.
He found Naresh struggling against his bonds. With a few slashes of his penknife, he cut the man free. “Are you well enough to run for help?”
Naresh nodded. “Where shall this help be coming from then?”
“Take this.” He pulled off his signet ring. “Show it to Ezekiel Rakestraw at the Blind Dog on Beacon Street. Tell him Mr. Doverspike is in need of assistance on Westminster Bridge. Tell him the key is in play. He’ll know what to do.”
Naresh rose to his feet. “There is no code phrase? Always when I took a turn at the Great Game with Angus—”
“The ring will serve. There’s no time,” Trev said, suddenly impatient with the cloak-and-dagger nonsense surrounding his clandestine activities. Once it had all seemed so romantic and exciting. Now that Larla was caught in the middle of the Game, it lost its allure. “Tell him not to dally. Send as many as he can. Tell them to come quietly and wait for my signal.”
Then he and Naresh ran up the stairs, through the nave and into the deepening night.
Chapter 31
Trevelyn waited in the dark alley, listening for the clatter of the ambassador’s coach. His horse’s withers were lathered and the beast heaved beneath him. He regretted the necessity of pushing his mount so, but he had to cut Kharitonov off on the way to Westminster Bridge. They were sure to come along this street from St. Paul’s. Trev only hoped he’d beaten them to this point.
The gelding he’d ‘borrowed’ from his father’s stable was unshod in preparation for the coming turn of the season. But even so, the horse had delivered every ounce of speed Trev had required. He’d ask more of the gelding before the night was over.
“One more push, old boy,” he whispered as he leaned down to pat the horse’s quivering neck. “Then so help me God, I’ll see you’re sent out to the country estate with nothing but soft grass under foot for the rest of your life.”
The gelding snorted a horsy laugh, as if he’d heard that promise before.
Then the ambassador’s coach rumbled past, its running lanterns swaying. One of Kharitonov’s henchmen was lashing the pair of matched bays into a canter. The other stood on the rear rail, clinging for dear life.
Trev smiled. A chance to even the odds.
He dug his heels into the gelding’s sides and the horse leaped into a gallop, head down, ears laid back, surging after the coach. With all the rattle and clatter the ambassador’s vehicle made, Trev hoped the Russian perched on the rear rail wouldn’t hear the pounding tattoo of his approach until it was too late.
He leaned over his horse’s neck, crooning soft encouragements, as they gained on the coach with each stride. He was almost close enough to reach out and grab the man’s flying coat tails, when the carriage made a sharp turn. The Russian must have seen Trev from the corner of his eye, for he gave startled shout to his companion. The driver tossed a look over one shoulder and whipped the bays into a gallop.
The coach inched away from Trevelyn as his horse tired by the moment.
“Yah!” Trev exclaimed as he whacked the gelding on the rump. The startled horse erupted in a fresh burst of speed and brought him even with the rear wheels of the coach.
Trev grasped the brass rail that topped the vehicle, hauling himself out of the saddle. As he dangled there, fighting for a toehold, his horse fell swiftly astern, like a punting boat in the wake of a royal barge.
A Russian fist came flying at Trevelyn’s head and he managed to dodge the blow by releasing one hand to swing away from it. Then Lubov brought his hammer-fist down on Trev’s knuckles, trying to break his hold on the brass rail. He clenched his fingers all the tighter and swung his other hand back up.