by Carola Dunn
Ned saw that the landing floor was burned through in places, revealing the joists. As Nick stepped cautiously onto it, a piece of wood fell clattering to the floor below.
“I suppose Winnie is so light she crossed easily,” Ned observed.
‘Yes, and Annette, too. She’s game as a pebble, such a sensible creature. She’s sitting outside the door talking to Winnie. You have to go around by the wall—it’s stronger there—and watch that you place your feet directly above a joist. If you look at the holes you can see where they run.”
Pressing close to the scorched plaster, Ned followed Nick. Fortunately the floor of the passage beyond the landing was in much better shape, the boards charred but solid. Above, the ceiling was gone, only a crisscrossed litter of timbers separating the intruders from the twilight sky.
Annette was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, her face pale in the gloom. Her tremulous smile, so like her mother’s, made Ned’s heart turn over.
“We shall soon have your sister safe, love,” he said, crouching to put his arm about her thin shoulders with a gentle squeeze. “The best place for you will be under a door lintel, I think. Come and stand over here in this doorway and don’t stir, while Nick and I have a go at that door. Nick, do you know what the floor is like in the room?”
“Winnie says it’s solid.”
Ned glanced up at the heavy beams lying across the passage and tried not to think what would happen if their efforts dislodged them. Their settling weight must have distorted the walls, jamming the door. He went over to the door, put his mouth close to it and said, “Winnie, you must go over to the farthest corner. Stay away from the window but keep close against the wall. We’ll have you out of there right away.”
He put his shoulder to the door and heaved. Nothing happened.
“Told you it’s stuck,” Nick said. “We’ll have to charge it. I thought of using a battering ram, but there isn’t enough clearance.”
The passage was about four feet wide. Together the brothers threw themselves across it, hitting the door shoulder-first. It burst open with a crash. Ned, on the latch side, hurtled into the room and sprawled full length. He pushed himself up, and sank back with a groan. His shoulder was on fire, shooting arrows of agony up his neck and down into his ribcage.
Two small feet shod in kid half-boots appeared before his eyes. “Did you hurt yourself, sir?” enquired Winnie in dismay.
The difficult return around the landing was excruciating, and the walk back to Dean House seemed endless. Winnie, tired but otherwise undamaged in body and spirit, rode on Nick’s shoulders. Ned offered Annette his good hand, which she took after asking with touching solicitude if he was sure it would not make the pain worse. He found that it was bearable as long as he kept up a slow, steady pace, but the slightest independent movement of his arm, hidden beneath his coat in its makeshift sling, brought torture. Not wanting to upset the children, he managed to hold back his groans.
Nick lifted Winnie down to go through the door in the garden wall. The two girls dashed ahead through the deep dusk towards the welcoming light in the uncurtained windows of Lady Sylvia’s sitting room. When Ned and Nick reached the French doors, they were in their mother’s arms, babbling the tale of their adventure, interrupting each other and both talking at once.
Over their heads, Lady Sylvia saw Ned step into the room. She set her daughters aside and came swiftly to him, her eyes alight with joy and gratitude.
She put her arms around his neck. He fainted.
* * * *
The first voice to penetrate Ned’s consciousness was his mother’s, but the gentle hands that bathed his forehead with lavender water were Sylvia’s. He was about to open his eyes when soft lips touched his cheek, followed by a teardrop, and a soft voice murmured, “Oh, my brave dear.”
Unfortunately, the next voice to make itself heard was Nick’s. “Where’s Polly?”
The only answer was a shocked silence. Ned opened his eyes at last. It was pitch dark now—and Polly always came home by nightfall.
Chapter 17
A spark burned Polly’s hand as the last strand parted. She let go. Kolya picked up the remaining foot of the fuse and flung it into a corner. For half a minute they watched it fizzle and sputter, then it went out. Darkness and silence closed in.
She reached out towards him, and suddenly she was in his arms. He held her close. The rough brick beneath her knees vanished and she was conscious only of his warm breath on her cheek, the long leanness of him pressed against her.
“Polly,” he murmured, “Polly,” and his voice shook.
For a moment which seemed endless but was all too short, she clung to him. Then he released her and helped her up.
“The door is this way, I think,” he said matter-of-factly.
“They locked it. I heard them.”
“I too, but I must try.” Holding her hand, he moved cautiously forward. “Come, I do not want to lose you.”
Polly stretched her other hand ahead of her. The absolute absence of light was blacker than she had ever imagined, yet she peered into it, straining her eyes to see the invisible. The only sound was the shuffle of their feet, then Kolya stopped.
“Here is the wall. The door must be near.”
She took another step and her fingertips hit wood. “It’s here.” Waving her hand, she found the handle, turned it. “And it’s locked.”
“Then here we will stay until we are found. Best we sit down and make as comfortable as we can.”
“Nick will guess where we are.”
“Of course. Do not say my fearless one is afraid?” he teased, pulling her down to sit against the wall, his arm around her waist.
Her hat was in the way, so she pulled it off. “No, but I would be if you were not here. And I would have been before, if there had been time. They were trying to blow up the king!”
“His Majesty’s suite is just above us—his bathroom or his dressing room. At this moment he is probably dressing for the dinner. Was well planned.”
“It was very wicked of them, but I cannot help sympathizing a little. I recognized one of the men yesterday. His business was ruined by the construction. Do you think I ought to give him away?”
“Give him away?”
“Inform against him. Tell that I saw him. No, I cannot! He would probably be hanged. But suppose they try again?”
“I doubt they will, especially if I speak to this man so that he knows he is discovered.”
“And if I tell you who he is, you will not lay information against him?”
She heard the grin in his voice. “I am not a friend of the authorities. You know why I was exiled from Russia—for rescuing a prisoner from my own emperor.”
“Will you tell me about it? Lady John said a little, but I should like to hear the whole story.”
Kolya’s description of Lord John disguised as an imperial footman made her laugh, and the horrors of the dungeons of the Peter Paul fortress made their own cellar seem almost cosy in comparison. Not quite. By the time his tale was finished, the chill was seeping through her thin summer gown and she began to shiver.
“You are cold!” He moved away from her, withdrawing the one patch of warmth. “You must put on my coat.”
“Then you will be cold.”
“I have the leather riding breeches. Besides, it is the privilege of a gentleman to freeze so that a lady will not. Now, put your arm here.”
In the process of helping her into his coat in the pitch darkness, his hands brushed against her body, feathered across her breasts, settled for a moment on the back of her neck. She was glowing with heat long before he fastened the buttons and put his arm back around her waist.
Of its own accord her head came to rest against his shoulder. In the ringing silence she felt the tension in him, heard his quickened breathing.
If he wanted her, she would give herself to him without a second thought. She knew it without a doubt. How wrong she had been to think her principles wer
e strong enough to withstand her attraction to Kolya! Marriage was not for her, but she would take whatever he offered.
Her hand crept to his chest. It came to rest on the icon he always wore about his neck, under his shirt. He put his own hand over hers, pressed it, sighed, and began to talk about his mother and his sisters.
Gradually she relaxed, and even dozed. When she woke to feel his cheek resting against the top of her head, she kept quite still so as not to disturb him and soon drifted off to sleep again. Then they both woke at the same time and walked cautiously around the edge of the room, Kolya trailing his fingers against the wall, to restore their circulation before settling again.
“It feels as if we have been here for days,” Polly said as they set out on their third tour of the room. “How long do you think it will take Nick to persuade someone to come and look for us?”
“Ned will be with him,” Kolya reminded her, “and Ned looks too respectable to be ignored.”
“Unlike me in my painting smock,” she had to admit. “If only it weren’t so dark. I’m beginning to imagine I see things. Things like huge, crusty loaves of bread, fresh from the oven, and yellow rounds of cheese, and dishes of strawberries and cream. You know, I think my next painting will be a still life of food.”
Kolya laughed. “Excellent idea. I will buy. Ah, we are halfway around. Here is the hole in the wall.”
“The niche where we hid? I wonder what it’s doing there. Do you suppose it could be part of their plot—to weaken the walls so they crumble more easily?”
“I believe is beginning of a tunnel. Mr. Nash is to build an underground passage for the king, so that he can go to the stables privately.”
“I heard that he is too heavy to ride. There was an article in the Times, it must have been five years ago, about his difficulty in mounting. Ned told me about it. They had to build a special contraption.”
“What is contraption?”
“This one was a slope, about two feet high, I think, with a platform at the top. They would push Prinny up on a chair with rollers, then the platform was raised by some sort of screw mechanism until it was high enough for a horse to pass under it. Then Prinny was lowered onto the horse and off he went.”
Kolya was shouting with laughter when the door opened. Polly screwed her eyes shut against a flood of light as half a dozen people poured into the room. When she opened them Ned was standing in front of her, dear, respectable Ned with his arm in a sling, smears of what looked very like soot all over his clothes, and a huge grin on his scratched face.
“What’s the joke?” he asked, then fended off her attempted hug with his good arm. “No, don’t touch me, I’ve done something frightful to my shoulder. You, on the other hand, look to be in fine fettle.”
Nick left the other four men, one a footman and two in military uniform, who were more interested in the barrels of gunpowder than the pair they had rescued.
“What happened?” he demanded. “Jupiter, I knew there was something smoky going on.”
Kolya explained, “Was plot to explode king.”
After their discussion of His Majesty’s excessive girth, Polly suspected that his choice of words was deliberate. His face was innocent, but there was a gleam in his eye. Luckily the soldier who now turned towards them didn’t notice.
“We’ll need to know everything you saw and heard, ma’am, sir,” he said grimly.
Suddenly Polly was exhausted. “I want to go home!” she wailed. Ned, looking equally tired, put his good arm around her.
“Just a few questions,” said the officer in a harassed voice. “Come upstairs and we’ll make you comfortable, ma’am.” He ordered the other soldier to stand guard, then led the way out of the cellars.
They emerged in a part of the Pavilion Polly had not visited. She caught sight of a clock—it was past three in the morning. The officer ushered them, Ned and Nick too, into a small room with a large desk and stacks of papers everywhere.
“Sit down, I shall be with you in a moment,” he said.
He was turning to leave when Nick said loudly, “Some tea for my sister, sir!”
“Bless you,” said Polly, sinking onto one of the hard chairs as the soldier nodded and shut the door behind him. They heard him issuing commands in the corridor.
He returned in a few minutes with two other men. One he introduced as the king’s equerry and the second appeared to be a secretary, as he wrote down everything Kolya and Polly said. They denied adamantly that they had any idea who had planted the gunpowder, and, following Kolya’s lead, Polly did not mention the plotters’ motive. Nick was equally reticent when the officer turned to him for confirmation of his sister’s story.
There was not a great deal to tell. They were finished by the time a footman brought in tea, wine, and sandwiches. Ned and Nick had also missed their dinner so the interrogation turned into an impromptu picnic, though Polly was too tired to do more than nibble.
She was about once more to proclaim her desire to go home, when another footman entered and spoke to the equerry.
With a look of annoyance, that gentleman announced, “His Majesty wishes to thank Miss Howard and...ah...Prince Nikolai in person.”
“But it’s past three o’clock,” Polly protested.
“His Majesty is…ah…celebrating.”
The officer who had been drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk, broke in. “The news came this evening that the Privy Council has denied Queen Caroline’s request to be crowned.”
The equerry frowned at him as if he thought it none of their business just what the king was celebrating. He turned back to Polly. “I…ahem…might I suggest, ma’am, that you return His…ah…Excellency’s coat?”
She had quite forgotten that she was wearing Kolya’s coat. Clumsy with fatigue, she struggled with the buttons. He was beside her in an instant, gently pushing her fingers aside and undoing them. As he helped her take off the coat, a gasp of dismay from the equerry reminded her that under it was her painting smock. However, he had not the nerve to ask a lady to disrobe further and she was far too tired to bother. Dishevelled and dirty as they were, she and Kolya followed him across a corridor and into a long, elegantly furnished room.
Compared to the greater part of the Pavilion, the king’s library was modestly decorated. Between inset bookshelves, the wall panels were light green with white floral patterns, and the ceiling was pale blue with fluffy white clouds. There was not a dragon in sight.
By the white marble fireplace, where a fire blazed despite the warmth of the night, a lady sat with her back to them. Opposite her a vast gentleman in a crimson dressing gown with gold tasselled cord was raising his glass in a toast. His face matched his robe. As the equerry led them closer, Polly saw that the table with bottles and glasses had seen a great deal more use than the chess set on its stand between the pair. Only a single pawn had been moved.
“Miss Howard and Prince Nikolai Volkov, sir.”
Kolya bowed and Polly curtsied to the floor. As she rose, she saw that the woman was Lady Conyngham.
“Well, Prince,” said the king jovially, “we hear you have saved us from a second Guy Fawkes.”
From the corner of her eye, Polly noted that Kolya looked blank. She would have to explain Guy Fawkes to him. He bowed again and said, “Was my pleasure, sir.”
“I’ll wager it was a pleasure, with so fair a companion. So this is your artistic protégée?” He regarded her smock with an amused twinkle. “I have your cherry tree in bloom, Miss Howard, a delightful piece.”
“Thank you, sir,” Polly murmured, blushing and bobbing another curtsy. His Majesty might be near as big around as an elephant but he had retained the genial charm of his youth.
“It was you, I hear, ma’am, who first suspected this gunpowder plot. We are deeply indebted to you, and you shall both be properly rewarded. But you are sorely fatigued. We must not keep you longer from your rest.”
“My dear sir,” put in Lady Conyngham, patting his fat h
and, “surely you wish to assure the happy couple of your blessing on their marriage.”
“Marriage?” said His Majesty, frowning as if the word was an obscenity. Kolya looked not much better pleased.
“Prince Nikolai and Miss Howard have spent the greater part of the night alone together,” her ladyship pointed out. “Her reputation will be ruined if they are not wed at once.”
“No!” cried Polly. “I beg you, sir, do not force us to wed. I am an artist and dedicated to my work. It is my intention to remain single.”
“I’ll not be party to pushing any man into marriage,” declared the king roundly, “nor any woman neither. It is by no means a desirable estate, my dear Lady Conyngham. Nor is our realm so overrun with fine artists that it can afford to lose any to the whims of a husband. If none know of this night’s doings, Miss Howard’s reputation will not suffer, and any who babble of it shall incur our extreme displeasure.” He glared at the equerry.
“I shall see that it is kept quiet, sir,” said that unoffending gentleman, and hurried Polly and Kolya from the room.
Polly was too tired and bewildered to take in the events of the next few minutes. The equerry muttered that she was lucky to have found His Majesty in an obliging humour. The officer told them not to leave Brighton for the next few days. Kolya disappeared. She was reunited with Ned and Nick, and a carriage was provided to return them to Dean House through streets shiny with rain.
Mama and Lady Sylvia greeted her with tears of relief, but dazed as she was she could not help noticing that a greater share of Sylvia’s care was lavished on Ned. It was good to have Mama there, helping her undress, tutting over her smock, putting her nightgown over her head, and tucking her up in bed as if she were a little child again.
At last she was alone. All she could think of was that she had had a chance to marry Kolya and had rejected it. She loved him and wanted him, but she could not bear that he should be forced to wed her.
Chapter 18
