How To Distract a Duchess

by Mia Marlowe

  “Very well, we have established that your intentions were pure and noble,” Artemisia allowed, unable remain upset with him when he was so clearly unhappy. “What have you done for my own good?”

  He looked her squarely in the eye and held her gaze, something she couldn’t ever remember him doing for more than the flicker of an eyelash.

  “Madam, I deemed you flighty and undependable and in grave need of public reprimand, which of course it is not my place to deliver.”

  “No, of course not. Especially since you are so good at private reprimands.” Her tone dripped sarcasm.

  “Nevertheless, I was approached by a certain member of the press who assured me that he would do all he could to amend the unfavorable opinion Polite Society had conceived for you. He encouraged me to believe that a glowing article about you would lessen the negative gossip. So I gave him information which to my sorrow, he used for very different ends,” Cuthbert said without flinching. Then his face crumpled in misery. “Yet this past night, you risked your own person in the interests of England and now destroyed a masterpiece that was dear to you in order to save others.” His pale eyes glistened. “I am unworthy to serve so gracious a mistress, but I do crave your pardon before I leave.”

  “You mean you conspired with The Tattler?”

  He shook his head, his expression sadder than a Bassett hound. “I would never see you shamed.”

  A giggle made her belly quiver before it fought its way out of her throat. Soon she was laughing with near hysteria.

  “Madam, I am overcome with remorse. Pray, do not take leave of your senses,” Cuthbert pleaded. “It would be more than one could bear.”

  This statement only served to increase her hilarity.

  “I will summon a physician at once.” He turned sharply on his heel and headed toward the studio door.

  “No, no!” Artemisia finally managed to subdue her laughter and recovered her power of speech. “I’m not destined for Bedlam just yet, Cuthbert, though I daresay there are those who might argue the point.”

  “Then why do you laugh when this is no laughing matter?”

  “Because the things that used to seem so terribly important are so clearly not,” she said, the last of her giggles gone. “The ton may deride me all it wishes and welcome. I care not at all, if only I can see Mr. Shipwash freed and Trev—”

  Her voice broke with suppressed emotion. She didn’t dare contemplate what had happened to him. He must be all right. If not . . .

  “You’re right. In the eyes of society, I am flighty and undependable and in need of reprimand. I was all that you say. I still am. Since your opinion of me was but the truth as you saw it, there is nothing to forgive, Cuthbert,” Artemisia said. “Unless you still intend on quitting my service, in which case, I will never forgive you.”

  A quick smile flitted across his thin lips. “One is gratified,” he said, his somber demeanor firmly back in place. “How may one serve you this night?”

  A new idea struck her, one that might grant them all a thin layer of protection. It was no thicker than a sheaf of newsprint, but it was better than nothing.

  “For starters, you can contact Mr. Wigglesworth again,” she said. “He doesn’t deserve it, but he’s about to be handed the story of a lifetime.”

  * * *

  Trevelyn wasn’t sure which sound stirred him to full consciousness—the steady drip of condensed moisture or the skittering of rat claws on ancient rock. He became dimly aware that he was lying face down on an uneven surface, his cheek pressed against grainy stone. He tried to open his eyes, but only managed one since the other seemed to be swollen shut. A sleek, fat rodent was nosing along the floor of his cell, trying to work up the courage to nibble on Trevelyn’s outstretched fingertips.

  “Bah! Get away.” Trev scrambled into a sitting position. The rat disappeared down a drain in the center of the small space. Trev’s quick movement cost him a streak of pain that arced from the base of his skull down the length of his spine.

  He brought a hand to the back of his head. A goose egg swelled beneath blood-matted hair. The last thing he remembered was straddling the ambassador’s chest with his fingers wrapped around Kharitonov’s neck. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why. A sudden burst of pain, a flash of light had splayed across his vision, then darkness. Someone must have clubbed him from behind.

  He supposed he should be grateful they didn’t pump a lead ball into him instead. But the ambassador’s residence was on a fashionable London street. The neighbors might take exception to the report of a pistol and send a constable round to investigate.

  Trev rose to his feet, swaying with nausea, the after-effect of the blow to his head. He was certainly far from the fashionable district now. In the dimness, he made out a few details of his cell—the rough ochre walls, the tally marks gouged into the sandstone by previous occupants, and the pervading stench of ancient misery leeching from the very rocks around him. A narrow corridor disappeared in either direction outside the bars of his cell, leading to the foot of a stone staircase to the left and down into deeper darkness to his right.

  A brisk wind whipped up from the blackness, making him shiver. A strong scent came with it, a fishy, tarry smell that could only mean he was being held close to the Thames. If he strained his ears, he thought he could hear the steady lapping of an incoming tide.

  Trevelyn tried the iron bars that formed the front of his cell. He strained at each one, hoping for signs of weakness, but finally gave up, collapsing in a loud groan.

  “It’s no use,” a voice said. “I’ve tried till my fingers bleed, but the bars still hold.”

  Trev cast his one-eyed gaze to the cell across the narrow corridor. A man lay on his side on the bare stone floor, one arm tucked to pillow his head. He’d been so still, Trev hadn’t even noticed he was there.

  “Shipwash. James Shipwash?” he asked, not sure why the name suddenly leaped into his brain.

  The man sat up. “Yes, how did you know?”

  “Because I’m working with the duchess.” Trev’s memory came back in shattered fragments, like a stained glass window reassembled by a blind artisan. He prayed Artemisia had been able to escape the ambassador’s house in the confusion. Why had he allowed her to accompany him there? He fingered his swollen eye and winced. “I think we’re trying to free you.”

  James shot him a mirthless grin. “Not having much success with that, I’d say.”

  “Where are we?”

  “As near as I can figure, we’re in the Tower, the part that hasn’t seen service for a couple hundred years.” Shipwash said. “I’d heard rumors that there were secret cells accessible from the Thames by way of the Traitor’s gate and deep under the rest of the Tower of London. Guess that’s where we are. They dose me with laudanum during the day, but sometimes, I hear things. Or maybe I’m dreaming I hear things,” he admitted, hanging his head. “But I was sure I heard the guard shouting out the Changing of Queen Elizabeth’s keys.”

  The key, Trevelyn thought sluggishly. Perhaps he’d been drugged as well. There was something important, he was sure, about a key. Suddenly the whole tale rushed back into him in a blur that left him light-headed. He hoped Artemisia had Beddington’s key safe now.

  If she was safe now.

  He’d never know if he stayed here. Trev eyed the heavy lock that held his cell closed. It was much more of an obstacle than the simple door locks he’d successfully picked before, but he’d lose nothing by trying. He reached into his boot for the jimmy he’d been taught to use.

  It was gone.

  He looked around the cell for a shim of metal. Surely the previous residents didn’t gouge the walls with nothing but their bare hands.

  “What are you looking for?” Shipwash asked.

  “Something I can use to pick the lock. A thin piece of metal—a knife blade, a file . . .”

  “All I have is a spoon,” Shipwash said.

  “And I have nothing,” Trev concluded afte
r an exhaustive search.

  “I suppose that means our captors don’t intend to feed you. Tough luck, old son,” Shipwash said in an attempt at gallows humor. “In truth, the gruel they serve is worse than hunger.”

  “Or we aren’t going to be here long enough for me to need to be fed,” Trev guessed. “Give me your spoon.”

  “Why?”

  “I may be able to use the handle. It’s worth a try.” He leaned against the bars and stretched his arm across the void. “Come, man. If it doesn’t work, I’ll give it back.”

  Shipwash dragged himself to his feet and handed Trev the spoon. The man flashed Trev a quick smile, revealing a missing front tooth. Their captors obviously weren’t above mistreating them. At least most of the damage done to Trevelyn had been while he was unconscious.

  Trev nodded his thanks and went to work on the lock. He had to wedge himself between the bars as far as he could to find the proper angle to insert the spoon handle. The lock was an ancient piece, the tumblers stiff with rust. Trev was soon sweating with exertion, trying to make the delicate mechanism turn in the correct order. Tongue clamped firmly between his teeth in concentration, he finally felt the last notch give and the lock fell open.

  “Now for yours,” he said as he swung open the heavy gate.

  He’d only inserted the spoon handle into Mr. Shipwash’s lock when he heard the tramp of booted feet.

  “Someone’s coming,” James said.

  “If we are near the Tower, maybe it’s the guard you thought you heard earlier.” Trev bit his lower lip as he worked the spoon back and forth in the lock.

  “No, the sound’s too close for that. It’s them. The Russians. They’ve come back,” James said with a tremor in his voice. “You need to go.”

  “Not without you.”

  “It’s no good if they take you again.”

  Shipwash reached between the bars and gripped Trev’s wrist.

  “The water’s that way.” He jerked his head toward the darkened end of the corridor. “They’ll be here any moment. You haven’t time to free me.”

  Trev shook off Shipwash’s hand. “Not if you keep interrupting me.”

  “The duchess may need you.”

  That stopped him cold.

  “Go,” James said.

  Trev looked down at the slightly built clerk and saw only his lion-sized heart. Courage came in all sizes, he decided.

  The footsteps were nearer now. A flare of torchlight danced down the stairwell.

  “I will see you free,” Trev promised and reluctantly turned away. He bolted down the corridor toward the smell of the Thames.

  Chapter 30

  The night air was thick with the green miasma that drifted up from the Thames each year with the coming of warmer weather. Slogging from one sickly yellow pool of gaslight to the next, Artemisia and Naresh made their way toward the dome of St. Paul.

  When they reached the top of the steps at the cathedral’s west entrance, Artemisia turned to her companion and stopped him with a hand to his forearm.

  “Wait here, Naresh,” she said. “If I don’t return within a quarter hour, you know what to do.”

  The tall Indian frowned at her. “I do not like this plan, Larla. It is too full of many dangers. Why do you not allow me to go into the crypt in your stead?”

  “Because they are expecting Mr. Beddington,” she said, putting up a braver front than she felt. “Whether they like it or not, I am he. Besides, our time is nearly up. I must go or they will harm Mr. Shipwash.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “Please, Naresh, don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

  He gave a grudging nod and took his station, fierce determination creasing his usually placid brow.

  The Banger, the biggest bell in the West Tower, chimed midnight in deep, mellow tones. At the twelfth strike of its monumental clapper, Artemisia slipped into the cathedral through the tall western door.

  The long nave was lit only by a few tapers and silver shafts of moonlight filtering in through the high stained glass. She saw no late-night worshippers, but someone had pulled the heavy rope to sound midnight. It gave her comfort to know the sexton must be someplace within the echoing vault. But as she traversed the open space, the only set of footsteps she heard clicking down the central aisle were her own.

  The gigantic dome that crowned the center of the cross-shaped structure receded upward in shadowed concentric circles. Before Artemisia reached the quire, she turned aside to make her way down the curving staircase to the crypt beneath the cathedral.

  The air below ground was stale and thick. Artemisia shuddered. She fancied she could scent the moldering corpses of those luminaries interred beneath St. Paul’s dome. Did the ghost of Christopher Wren, the small genius who designed the great cathedral, sometimes haunt its empty halls? Or would the spirit of Horatio Nelson, hero of Trafalgar, rise from his brandy-soaked inner coffin to roam the labyrinth of his crypt?

  “Dinna fret yerself, Larla,” she suddenly heard her father’s voice in her head, his Scottish brogue thick and warm as boiled parritch. “‘Tis not the dead ones ye need be worrit about. ‘Tis the live ones.”

  A smile teased the corner of her mouth, and she straightened her spine. The daughter of Angus Dalrymple had some surprises in store for the live ones waiting for her in the crypt this night. She hoped it would be enough.

  Lantern light shown against the whitewashed walls on the far side of Nelson’s black sarcophagus. She heard the faint sibilance of a whispered conversation. The abductors were here, then. She cast a silent prayer upward, and walked around Nelson’s tomb into the light. The Russian ambassador turned to her.

  Trevelyn had done some damage while he covered her escape. A bruise purpled the ambassador’s jaw, the bridge of his nose was swollen and slightly askew. Artemisia smiled in satisfaction.

  “Your Grace,” Kharitonov said with a frown. “What do you do here?”

  “I’ve come to negotiate the release of Mr. Beddington’s assistant,” she said in a voice that was surprisingly even. So far, her prayer seemed to have been efficacious. Mr. Shipwash was there, after all. She’d feared they might have left him in his hidden location. Behind the ambassador’s bulk, her clerk was propped up by a man she recognized as the burly Lubov. But there was no sign of Trevelyn, and her heart sank. She swallowed hard and forced a polite nod. “How are you faring, Mr. Shipwash?”

  “Tolerably well, madam,” he said gamely, despite a missing tooth and a swelling cheek. His mistreatment sickened her, but nothing would be gained by hysterics. She arched a brow at the ambassador and adopted her most imperious tone.

  “I hold you personally responsible for his deplorable condition, sir.”

  Kharitonov scratched his thick thatch of graying hair, obviously still confused by her presence. “Where is Beddington? Him you were to send.”

  “Did my stepson tell you that?” she asked, trying to rattle them with her knowledge of their business dealings. “If so, you were woefully misinformed. Mr. Beddington is . . . indisposed at present. I am acting in his capacity in this matter.”

  “Are there no men left in England that they send woman?” Kharitonov muttered. “Go home to painting, Your Grace. With woman, I cannot deal.”

  She’d hoped to throw him off balance just so. “Nevertheless, I am all you will get. Let us proceed to business,” she said. “You are on British soil. It is unlawful for you to hold an Englishman against his will. I demand you release Mr. Shipwash and—“ here her voice faltered for a heartbeat “—and a certain other gentlemen I have reason to believe you hold as well at once.”

  The ambassador folded his beefy arms over his chest. “Give me Mr. Beddington’s key, and he go free.” He jerked a thumb toward Mr. Shipwash. “No one else we hold.”

  Her vision tunneled briefly, but she forced herself to draw a slow deep breath. “There was a man at your residence last night—“

  “There was thief at my home, da. With him, he had woman, but she ran. Was
dark. Her we do not know for certain.” Kharitonov narrowed his eyes in speculation, then shrugged. “The thief, he was not so fast. In Mother Russia, we know how to treat criminals. With him we have already dealt.”

  “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.”