by Mia Marlowe
“Up there,” she mouthed to Trevelyn.
He stretched, but even his long arms were unequal to the task.
She pointed to the overstuffed chair before the cold fireplace and lifted her shoulders in a questioning shrug.
It was a massive piece of furniture with gigantic wings protruding on each side. She suspected Trevelyn and she could fit snuggly together in the deep seat. The ambassador was a large individual. He obviously chose his furnishings with an eye to his scale.
Trevelyn tried to heft the unwieldy chair, but as Artemisia feared, it would take two men and a boy to lift it. And when Trev dragged it, the scuffing sound on the hardwood forced him to stop.
Behind the bed curtains, the rhythmic snoring ceased and the ambassador snorted loudly. Artemisia and Trev froze. Kharitonov smacked his lips twice, loosed a prodigious rolling fart and fell back into his deep wheeze.
Artemisia released her pent-up breath.
Trevelyn moved, light-footed as a cat to her side and pantomimed lifting her to reach the statue.
She nodded and placed her hands on his shoulders. He bent and wrapped his arms just beneath her hips, then lifted her in a clean motion. Unlike in the linen closet, when the tower they created together tilted drunkenly, now Trevelyn had a firm grip on her and she held her back rigid to help him balance.
He’s much steadier without his face between my legs, she mused. A little thrill of power coursed through her with the thought that she seemed to be able to weaken the knees of this strong man.
He edged toward the shelves, backing toward them so Artemisia could face forward. When his tight buttocks came within inches of the lower shelves, Artemisia dug her thumbs into his shoulders to signal him to stop.
She patted his cheek in way of thanks, then raised one arm toward the top shelf. The fitted bodice of her ensemble had extremely tight sleeves that limited her arm movement. She was only able to brush the base of Mr. Beddington with one fingertip.
Bother and confusticate those French dressmakers!
She strained toward the statue and felt the seams of her garment pop under the pressure. She managed to poke two fingers at Mr. Beddington but only succeeded in pushing him farther away.
Artemisia looked down at Trevelyn in frustration. She motioned for him to lift her higher. He grimaced back at her and grasped one of her feet to give her a boost. She shifted her weight and leaned a knee on his shoulder. He was surely suffocating under the press of her many layers of skirt and petticoats. If she could only stretch high enough, she’d be down again in three shakes of a lamb’s tail. As she reached again, she heard a tiny ripping noise when her shoulder seam gave way. She leaned farther. Just another couple of inches and she’d—
Got him!
She clutched Mr. Beddington to her chest with one hand and leaned her other one on Trevelyn’s head, hoping he’d realize she needed to descend. He took the cue and let her slide down slowly through his grip, her skirts bunching around her waist.
In that moment, she realized why Trevelyn was so drawn to “The Great Game.” All her senses were on full alert. Her ears pricked to such sharpness she suspected she’d hear an ant treading on the window sill. Every item in the ambassador’s chamber was doubled with a sharp-edged moonlit shadow. She was surrounded to the point of intoxication by Trev’s sandalwood scent and the pounding drum of his heartbeat as he lowered her. Even through their clothing, she felt the hard length of him pressing against her belly.
She was shiveringly alive. Outlandish erotic thoughts danced in her head and spread warmly down her body. She wished suddenly that Trevelyn would push her against the wall and have his very thorough way with her.
But of course, there was no time for even the quickest of couplings, however much her aching core demanded one. With effort, she stepped back from the circle of his arms and turned toward the door. Trevelyn followed closely behind her and pulled the door shut with a gentle click of the latch.
Artemisia continued down the hall, the statue still pressed against her breasts. Her relief at slipping in and out of the ambassador’s chamber undetected left her feeling almost giddy. Her fingers slid over the smooth glazed clay, then stopped.
“No, it can’t be,” she whispered.
“What?”
She ran her hand over the statue’s belly again. The small horse had no tallywhacker at all.
“This is not Mr. Beddington.”
Chapter 27
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” she whispered with a sigh. “The statue was so far out of reach, I just assumed it must be the one we wanted. I should have realized something was wrong when we didn’t find both Mr. Beddington and Miss Bogglesworth together. Do you suppose Mr. Kharitonov has discovered Beddington’s secret already?”
Trevelyn shook his head. “If he knew he had the key, he’d be on his way out of the country with it by now. Beddington must still be in his room. I’ll have to go back.”
“No, Trev. We go together.”
“There’s no need. Since you so kindly removed the look-alike, I’m not likely to mistake the statue this time.” His quick smile absolved her niggling guilt over her mistake.
“But two sets of eyes are better than one,” she insisted. “Other than the bed and the chair before the fire, oh and a monstrous wardrobe opposite the statuary, I don’t recall seeing any other furniture in the room. If it’s not on the display shelves, do you suppose he’s hidden Mr. Beddington in the wardrobe?”
“No point in having art if you’re not going to display it.” Trevelyn dragged a hand over his face. Then his eyes lit with sudden discovery. “Didn’t he say something about seeing it last thing at night and first thing in the morning?”
She nodded.
“There must be some kind of shelf on his bedstead,” Trev reasoned. “I’ve seen the like before.”
For a waspish moment, she wondered how many bedchambers Trevelyn had been in and out of. He certainly knew his way around the mysteries of the female body with the assurance of an adept. She forcefully banished the thought. She had no claim to him, no right to feel possession of either his past or future. She only had him now.
“Which is why I insist on accompanying you,” she said as though she’d voiced her thoughts and was completing them aloud. “I mean, you may need my help in ways you can’t envision now.”
He hesitated only a moment, then took her hand and led her back to the ambassador’s door. His lips brushed against her temple before he turned the knob.
“Remember your promise, Larla.”
“I always keep my word,” she said testily. Then because she needed to lighten the tension that banded her chest, she crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him. “Like a craven coward, I will bolt at the first hint of trouble and leave you to twist in the wind.”
“I’m serious.”
Her false smile faded. “So am I.”
“Good girl.”
He pushed open the door and they tiptoed back into the chamber. The ambassador’s snore continued to cleave the night with the rhythm of a two-man saw. Moving with stealth, Artemisia followed Trevelyn to the bedside nearest the open window.
Good thinking. The moonlight will show us what is on the other side of the ambassador’s bed curtains. It was nice to know that along with being clever and exceptionally fine to look upon, Trev was also practical.
He fingered the heavy velvet drapes and found the opening. As he parted the curtains by finger-widths, Artemisia leaned to peer around him. Stale vodka fumes laced with sickly sweet opiate and a cheesy male tang floated toward them. Artemisia raised a scented hanky to her nose to disguise the ambassador’s odor but only succeeded in adding faint rose-water to the miasma.
Trev parted the curtains further, careful to shield the ambassador’s face from the encroaching moonlight with his own shadow. Artemisia ducked and peered under Trev’s upraised arm. Then she saw them.
Lined like a small boy’s toy soldiers, a string of five
statuettes were propped on the rail that ran along the head of the bedstead. And there was Mr. Beddington, perched not a foot from the ambassador’s slack lips.
Artemisia saw immediately that Trev couldn’t reach for the statue without leaning across the entire bed. And he’d need to release the curtains, which would plunge him into darkness, making it difficult to choose the right statue or keep from knocking the wrong ones off their narrow ledge. Or else she could hold the curtains back and risk the moonlight waking the ambassador since she wasn’t tall enough to block it out like Trev.
Or . . . she could tiptoe around the bed and fetch the statue from the side on which the ambassador was sleeping.
Clutching Miss Bogglesworth to her bosom, she was half-way around the bed before her hands began to shake.
This is ridiculous, she scolded herself. You’re far too strong-minded to let a little thing like larceny reduce you to a quivering mass of pudding.
She groped for the part in the curtains and drew them aside. Across the ambassador’s bed, Trevelyn grinned at her and nodded encouragement. The snoring continued in a steady cadence. She let the curtain fall behind her and edged toward the head of the bed, her gaze never leaving Kharitonov’s quivering jowls.
Once he snorted and stopped breathing briefly. Artemisia froze until the ambassador resumed his wheezing. Her hand was surprisingly steady as she set Miss Bogglesworth on the rail beside her mate. Intent on her goal, she lifted the Beddington statue slowly.
The ambassador rolled over and his meaty hand grasped one of her breasts. A soft squeak escaped her lips before she realized he was still asleep. She forced herself to remain motionless. Even so, the way his fingers mauled her nipple made her stomach roil.
Trevelyn looked as though he could spit tacks, but he stood resolutely at his post, shielding the ambassador’s face from the moonlight. He jerked his head toward the door, telling her she needed to extricate herself from the sleeping Russian’s lascivious attentions.
As if I didn’t know, she thought at him with upraised brows.
But how to do it without waking the ambassador? That was an exceedingly sticky wicket.
She eased away slowly, leaving Kharitonov’s fingers grasping at thin air. When his hand drooped back to his side, she released her pent-up breath.
He mumbled something undecipherable.
Then suddenly Kharitonov reached out and grasped her by the waist. He pulled her down into the bed with him, pressing her face against his rising and falling chest.
Artemisia had heard of sleepwalkers. They took unremembered jaunts about their home, carried on lucid conversations, and did all manner of things that normally required one to be conscious.
But she’d never heard of someone being ravished by one.
She only needed to disentangle herself and the ambassador would drift back into what were obviously becoming exceedingly naughty dreams. She managed to free one arm and tried to hand Mr. Beddington to Trevelyn. He wasn’t looking at her. Trev’s gaze was riveted on the ambassador’s roving hand. Kharitonov had found her skirt and was pulling her hemline northward, baring her legs to the knee. The Russian mumbled again, his voice thick as he patted her on the rump.
“No way in bloody hell,” exploded from Trevelyn’s lips and the ambassador’s eyes snapped open.
Trev leaped onto the bed and pried Artemisia from the ambassador’s arms. Kharitonov rolled Trevelyn into a bear hug in her place.
“Lubov!” Kharitonov bellowed.
“Trev,” she said. “I had the matter perfectly well in hand—“
“No, the ambassador was the one with something in his hand,” Trev snarled as he tried to free his arms from Kharitonov’s grip.
“Lubov!” the Russian roared, all traces of too much alcohol and opiate gone from his enraged face.
Artemisia thought about bashing the ambassador with Mr. Beddington, but if the base shattered and the key was exposed here, their situation would be even grimmer. She settled for grasping one of his Excellency’s fingers and bending it back as far as she could.
Kharitonov yelped and growled a Russian curse at her, but didn’t lessen his hold on Trev.
“If you’d only waited,” she said to Trevelyn, “I’d have—“
“If you think I’d stand here and watch him molest you, you’re daft. Now run,” he yelled to her as he grappled with the ambassador. “Run, damn it.”
So she ran.
Out the door and down the corridor, not pausing before the linen closet. There was no possible way she could hoist herself into the garret and no time for a candle to light her way in the dark. She skidded to the head of the stairs.
The heavy tread of someone pounding up the steps made her stop. She could still hear Trev and Kharitonov, their voices growling, the crash of heavy objects shattering on the hardwood—the collection of statuettes being destroyed, she realized—and the dull thuds of fists hammering flesh. She was sure Trev could acquit himself admirably in a match of fisticuffs, but the ambassador was a very large man. Artemisia hoped Trevelyn wasn’t on the receiving end of the blows she heard ringing down the hall. Obviously he was trying to buy time enough for her to make good her escape.
She wanted to turn back, to help him if she could.
But she’d promised Trev she would run at his command and she knew he wouldn’t thank her for breaking her word.
“What we have here?” Lubov’s voice rose to her from the lower landing. His pale eyes raked her form in a deliberate invasion. He ran a thick tongue over his lower lip. “English Miss have fun with Lubov, da.”
She shuddered with revulsion. She’d scolded Trev for interfering in the ambassador’s chamber. Now she wished he were here with her to trounce this fellow as well.
Artemisia couldn’t make it past the hulking Lubov on the stairs. There was no exit for her through the garret alone. At best, she and Trev might leap from the ambassador’s window, but it was a three-story drop and no friendly gorse bushes below to break their fall.
Lubov flashed her an evil smile and began to advance up the steps.
There was nothing else for it. She threw her leg over the brass stair railing and slid down, sailing right past the stunned Russian. She had to hitch herself around the turn at the landing, but she managed to stay ahead of Lubov as he pounded after her.
When she reached the main floor, she resisted the urge to fly out the front. Instead, she dashed toward the rear of the home, hoping to locate the back door into the alley where Trevelyn’s horse waited. She barked her shins on several pieces of furniture as she stumbled through one room after another before finding the exit.
She pushed through the door, Lubov almost upon her. Trevelyn’s horse’s head was down, cropping a few late mums sprouting near the house. She grasped the saddle and hurled herself onto his back, blessing her father for insisting she learn to ride like a boy.
“Not so fast, English Miss.” Lubov grabbed the horse’s bridle, but Artemisia threw out her right foot and drove her heel into his eye-socket. He released her mount and clutched his face.
“Yah!” she screamed like a savage. The startled horse bolted down the cobbled alley like the hounds of Hell were on his tail.
Artemisia did nothing but hang on as the gelding fled for the safety of his own stable. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel anything. It would hurt too much to dwell upon how she’d abandoned Trev when he needed her most.
Chapter 28
“Madam, we were not expecting you.” Cuthbert knotted the sash at the waist of his dressing gown with characteristic fussiness. “Master Felix told us you were visiting friends from Bath who’d invited you to a house party—“ He stopped abruptly when he turned up the gas lamp. “Oh, my word. Your Grace, what has befallen? Are you injured?”
“No, I’m not hurt,” she said as she pulled off her ruined gloves. At least Felix’s artless lie had kept her family from worrying over her absence. Freshly mud-spattered from her wild ride through the London night, her hair frizzl
ed out in all directions, her sleeve ripped at the shoulder, Artemisia knew she looked a fright. It was why she’d tried to sneak into the manor house without attracting anyone’s notice. She should have known Cuthbert was part bloodhound.
“Here, Your Grace. Be pleased to sit.” He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs for her, then rebuilt the fire to heat water. “I daresay you’ll feel better after a nice cup of tea.”
“Thank you, Cuthbert,” she said shakily, laying the Beddington statue in her lap. “Of course, tea. Father always said it was the sovereign remedy for all ills.”
But there was nothing steeping in the china teapot that would cure her ills. She folded her arms on the sturdy table and laid her head down, wishing this was all just a horrible dream from which she’d momentarily awake.
To his credit, Cuthbert remained silent till she raised her head.
“Does Madam wish one to call for a physician?”
She must look worse than she thought.
His old eyes drooped with concern. It occurred to her that he actually did resemble an aging bloodhound in this light. “One can send someone straight away.”
“No, no, I’m quite well.” She pulled a hankie from her reticule and blew her nose like a trumpet. That attic was crammed with years of dust. “I will take tea when it’s ready.”
A steaming cup appeared before her.
“You are a wonder, Cuthbert,” she said.
“One does what one can,” he said with pompous humility. “If there’s nothing further, I’ll wake the chambermaid to see to your bath.”
She sighed. “There is something more. Please sit.”
“Madam, it would be highly inappropriate for one to sit in your presence.”
“Please, Cuthbert, no more lectures on what’s done and not done. I can’t bear it right now. Just sit.” She looked up at him. “Please.”
He pasted an uneasy smile on his face and perched on one of the other chairs.
“I need help,” she began. “And I need someone I can trust.”
