by Julia Quinn
She’d never had patience for this sort of thing. It went with the embroidery she hated, and the lessons she’d skipped…
If she could get this knot undone, she’d learn French. No, she’d learn Russian! That would be even more difficult.
If she could get it undone, she’d finish Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron. She’d even find the one about the mysterious colonel and read that one, too.
She’d write more letters, and not just to Miranda. She’d deliver charity boxes, not just pack them. She would bloody well complete everything she started.
Everything.
And there was no way she was going to fall in love with Sir Harry Valentine and not marry him.
No way at all.
Chapter Twenty-three
Harry sat in silence while Alexei downed his second shot of vodka. He said nothing when he took his third, or even his fourth, which was actually the one he’d originally poured for Harry. But when the prince reached for the bottle for his fifth shot—
“Don’t,” Harry snapped.
Alexei looked at him with surprise. “I beg your pardon.”
“Do not take another drink.”
Now the prince appeared merely confused. “You are telling me not to drink?”
One of Harry’s hands clenched into a fist, hard and tense. “I am telling you that if we need your assistance in finding Olivia, I don’t want you stumbling and puking down the hallway.”
“I can assure you, I never stumble. Or—what is this puke?”
“Put the bottle down.”
Alexei did not comply.
“Put. It. Down.”
“I think you forget who I am.”
“I never forget anything. You would do well to take note of that.”
Alexei merely stared at him. “You make no sense.”
Harry stood. “You do not want to provoke me right now.”
Alexei regarded him for a moment, then turned back to the glass and bottle in his hands. He started to pour.
Harry saw red.
It was the first bloody time in his life he’d seen the color, but he would have sworn that the entire world seemed to turn a different, hotter hue. His ears roared and tensed on the inside, as if he’d climbed to the top of a mountain. And he no longer had control. Of anything. His body leaped forward of its own volition, and his mind certainly wasn’t doing anything to stop it. He landed on the prince like a human cannonball, and they crashed against a table and then onto the floor, the vodka spilling on them both.
Harry nearly gagged at the heavy scent of the alcohol. It soaked his clothes, and it was cold, so cold against his skin.
But it didn’t stop him. Nothing could have stopped him. He couldn’t say anything, couldn’t think of anything to say. For once in his life he had no words. He had nothing but rage. It poured through him, pulsed with fury, and when he raised his fist, ready to slam it into the prince’s face, all that came forth was a cry of fury. And—
“Stop it!”
It was Vladimir, stepping nimbly into the fray, yanking Harry off Alexei and shoving him toward the opposite wall. “What the hell are you doing?”
“He is insane,” Alexei hissed, rubbing his throat.
Harry did nothing but breathe, but it was a rough, furious sound.
“Shut up,” Vladimir said. He glared at Harry, as if anticipating an interruption. “Both of you. Now listen to me.” He stepped forward, and his foot met with the bottle on the floor. It skittered across the room, spraying what was left of the vodka. Vladimir grunted in disgust but made no comment. After eyeing both men assessingly, he continued speaking. “I have inspected the building, and I believe that Lady Olivia is still inside.”
“Why do you think that?” Harry asked.
“There are guards at every door.”
“For a party?”
Vladimir shrugged. “There are many reasons to protect the contents of the house.”
Harry waited for more, but Vladimir did not elaborate. God above, it was just like talking with Winthrop. Harry hadn’t realized until this very moment how much he hated it—all those vague sentences and We have our ways.
“None of the guards saw her depart,” Vladimir continued. “The only door she might have exited without detection is the main one, where the party is.”
“She did not return to the party,” Harry said, then clarified: “She went to the washroom, but she did not return to the party.”
“Are you certain?”
He gave one sharp nod. “I am.”
“Then we must assume she did not leave the building. We don’t know if she reached the washroom—”
“She did,” Harry interrupted. He felt like an idiot for not mentioning this sooner. “She was there for some time. Her friend told me she saw her there.”
“Who is this friend?” Vladimir asked.
Harry shook his head. “I can’t recall her name. But she won’t have any useful information. She said she left before Olivia did.”
“She may have seen something. Find her,” Vladimir ordered. “Bring her to me. I will question her.”
“That’s a bad idea,” Harry told him. “Unless you’re prepared to hold her hostage. She could not keep a secret if her own life depended upon it, never mind someone else’s.”
“You question her, then. We will meet back here.” Vladimir turned back to Alexei. “You stay here. In case they send another message.”
Alexei said something in response, but Harry did not hear him. He was already well down the hall, in search of that girl—whatever her name was.
“Stop!” Vladimir called.
Harry skidded to a halt and turned impatiently. They didn’t have time to waste.
“You don’t need to look for her,” Vladimir said gruffly. “It was a ruse to get you out of the room and leave him”—he jerked his head toward the small salon where Alexei waited—“in.”
Harry’s mind raced but his voice was even when he asked, “Do you suspect him of involvement?”
“Nyet. But he will be a nuisance. You, I think, now that you have had time to calm down…”
“Do not mistake this for calm,” Harry bit off.
Vladimir’s brows rose; nonetheless, he reached into his coat and pulled out a gun, handle first. He held it out to Harry. “I do not think you will do something stupid.”
Harry’s hand wrapped around the handle of the gun, but Vladimir did not let go. “Will you?” he asked.
Do something stupid? “No,” Harry said. And he prayed it would be true.
Vladimir kept his hand in place for several seconds more, then abruptly let go, waiting while Harry inspected the weapon. “Come with me,” he ordered, and the two of them moved swiftly down the hall and around a corner. Vladimir stopped in front of a door, glanced both ways, and then ducked into an empty room, motioning for Harry to follow. Vladimir held a finger over his lips, then inspected the room, making sure it was empty.
“The ambassador has her,” he said. “Or rather, his men do. He is still at the party.”
“What?” Harry had never met the man, save for that evening’s receiving line, but still, it was hard to believe.
“He needs money. He will be recalled to Russia soon, and he has little resources of his own.” Vladimir shrugged, then waved one his arms expansively, indicating their opulent surroundings. “He has become used to living in this palace. And he has always been jealous of his cousin.”
“What makes you think he took Olivia?”
“I have other men here,” Vladimir said cryptically.
“And that is all you’re going to tell me,” Harry said disgustedly, finally fed up with never being told 100 percent of a story.
“That is all I am going to tell you, my friend,” Vladimir said. He shrugged again. “It is safer that way.”
Harry did not speak. He did not trust himself to do so.
“Lady Olivia’s parents have noticed her disappearance,” Vladimir said.
Harr
y was not surprised. It had been well over an hour.
“As far as I know, it has not been noticed by anyone else,” Vladimir continued. “There is much vodka in the room. I do not think they realize there is some in the lemonade.”
Harry looked at him sharply. “What?”
“Did you not know?”
He shook his head. How many glasses had he had? Bloody hell. His head felt clear, but then again, would he even know the difference? He had never been drunk, never even the slightest bit impaired.
“It has also been noticed that the prince is gone,” Vladimir continued. “Her parents are worried that they are together.”
Harry’s lips pressed into a flat, firm line. His chest burned at the insinuation, but this was not the time for jealousy.
“They wish to keep this quiet. They are with the ambassador right now.”
“They are with him? Has he—”
“He is playing the concerned host to perfection.” Vladimir spit on the floor. “I have never trusted him.”
Harry stared down at the wet spot on the floor with some surprise. It was the largest show of emotion he had seen him display. When he looked back up, it was clear that Vladimir had noticed his curiosity.
The huge Russian looked at him with steely eyes. “I especially detest men who prey on women.”
There was a world of history behind that remark, but Harry knew better than to ask. He nodded once—a show of respect—and then asked, “What now?”
“It is known where the prince is. That is where they will deliver a note. He has strict instructions not to do anything, and I think he is wise enough to do as I say.”
Harry hoped this was true. He thought it was, but then again, Prince Alexei had been drinking.
“While he waits, we search.”
“How big is this bloody mausoleum?”
Vladimir shook his head. “I do not precisely know. More than forty rooms, to be sure. Perhaps more. But if I were to hold someone, I would take her to the north wing.”
“What is in the north wing?”
“It is more remote. And the rooms are smaller.”
“But wouldn’t he think that that would be the first place we’d look?”
Vladimir moved to the door. “He would not know anyone is looking. He thinks me a stupid servant.” He looked over at Harry with a heavy-lidded stare. “And he knows nothing of you.” He placed his hand on the knob. “Are you ready?”
Harry’s fingers tightened on his gun. “Lead the way.”
It took nearly half an hour, and Olivia was quite sure her shoulders were both falling out of their sockets, but finally her fingers slipped under a piece of the knot and she was able to get it partially undone. She paused, listening attentively—were those footsteps she’d heard?
She stretched out straight, assuming the same position she’d held when her captor had left.
But no, nothing. There was no unclicking of locks, no opening of the door. She squirmed herself back around until she could feel the knot at the back of her ankles again. It was definitely smaller, but she still had work. Lots of it. She couldn’t be certain, but it felt like a double square. Well, one and a half, now. But if she could get the next section undone, she’d be…
She’d still be stuck.
She let out a long sigh, deflating in body and spirit. If it had taken her that long just to do one small part of the knot…
No, she berated herself. She had to keep going. If she could get the next two bits undone, then the rest ought to slip open with a little squirming on her part.
She could do this. She could.
She grit her teeth and got back to work. Maybe this one would go faster now that she knew what she was doing. She knew how to move her fingers, wedging one in the crease and then wiggling back and forth, back and forth, trying to loosen the knot.
Or maybe it would go faster because her shoulders had gone numb. Surely the lack of pain would be to her benefit.
She wedged…and wiggled…and wedged…and wiggled…and arched her back…and stretched…and rolled…and rolled back…
And lost her balance.
She landed on the floor with a loud thump. A really loud thump. She winced, praying that the change in the bindings around her ankles wasn’t noticeable as she listened for the clicks of the locks.
But there was nothing.
Could he not have heard her? It seemed impossible. Olivia had never been graceful; tie both her hands and her feet and she was a complete gawk. Needless to say, she had not landed quietly.
Maybe no one was out there. She had assumed that her captor was sitting in a chair outside her door, but truthfully, she had no idea why she thought that. He certainly couldn’t have thought she might escape, and Olivia was fairly certain that this section of the building was deserted. The only footsteps she’d heard had been immediately followed by the appearance of the gray-haired man.
She waited at her spot on the floor by the bed for another minute, just in case anyone came in, then shoved herself across the wood to the door, where she could peer underneath. There was a sliver of space there, no more than three-quarters of an inch, and she couldn’t see much—the hall was only the slightest bit better lit than her room. But she thought she might see shadows, if there were any.
And she didn’t think there were.
So she wasn’t guarded. This had to be a useful bit of information, although given her currently bound state, she wasn’t certain how. And she really wasn’t certain how she might maneuver herself back onto the bed. She could try to prop herself up against one of the legs, but the table with the teapot was still blocking the one by the head of the bed, and—
The teapot!
A surge of excitement and strength burst through her, and she literally flipped herself over in her haste to get back to the table. From there it was a scoot, scoot, shove, and—
She was there. Now how would she send it crashing down? If she could break the pot, she could use a shard to cut through her bindings.
With great effort she managed to get her feet beneath her. Using the side of the bed for support, she rose slowly, her muscles screaming, until finally she was standing. She took a moment to catch her breath, then backed up to the small table, bending at the knees until her hands were at just the right height to grab the teapot handle.
Please don’t let there be anyone out there please don’t let there be anyone out there.
She needed to get good force. She couldn’t just drop the thing on the floor. She glanced around the room, looking for inspiration. She started to spin.
Please please please.
She spun faster and faster, and then—
She let fly.
The teapot hit the wall with a mighty crack, and Olivia, terrified that someone might burst through the door, hopped back to the bed and lay on her back, although how she might explain the broken teapot on the far wall, she had no idea.
But no one entered.
She held her breath. She started to rise. Her shoes touched the floor and then—
Footsteps. Fast, moving toward her.
Oh God.
Voices, too. In Russian. They sounded urgent. Angry.
They wouldn’t hurt her, would they? She was too valuable. She was to be ransomed to Prince Alexei, and—
And what if Prince Alexei had said good riddance? He was no longer courting her. And he knew that she was smitten with Harry. What if he felt spurned? What if he felt vengeful?
She scooted back on the bed, cowering in the corner. It would be so nice to be brave, to face whatever was coming with a curl of the lip and flip of the hair, but she was no Marie Antoinette, dressing in white for a beheading, regally begging the pardon of her executioner when she accidentally stepped on his foot.
No, she was Olivia Bevelstoke, and she did not want to die with dignity. She didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want to feel this awful terror, clawing at her gut.
Someone started pounding on the door—hard, rhy
thmic, and brutal.
Olivia started to shake. She curled into the tiniest ball she could manage, burying her head between her knees. Please please please, she chanted in her head, over and over. She thought of Harry, of her family, of—
The wooden door began to splinter.
Olivia prayed she would not lose control.
And then it all came crashing in.
She screamed, the sound ripping from the back of her throat. It felt as if the gag was clawing at her tongue, as if a puff of dry, scorching air was whipping through her windpipe.
And then someone said her name.
The air was obscured by dust and darkness, and all she could see was the massive figure of a man moving toward her.
“Lady Olivia.” The man’s voice was gruff and deep. And accented. “Are you hurt?”
It was Vladimir, Prince Alexei’s hulking and usually silent manservant. Suddenly all she could think of was the way he’d yanked and twisted on Sebastian Grey’s arm, and oh dear God, if he could do that, he could break her right in two, and—
“Let me help you,” he said.
He spoke English? Since when had he spoken English?
“Lady Olivia?” he repeated, his deep voice barely a grunt. He pulled out a knife, and she cringed, but he just brought it to the back of her gag and sliced through it.
She coughed and choked, barely hearing him as he shouted something in Russian again.
Someone replied, also in Russian, and she heard footsteps…running…coming closer…and then—
Harry?
“Olivia!” he cried, running toward her.
Vladimir said something to him—in Russian—and Harry gave a curt reply.
Also in Russian.
She stared at both of them in shock. What was happening? Why was Vladimir speaking in English?
Why was Harry speaking in Russian?
“Olivia, thank God!” Harry said, his hands cupping her face. “Tell me you haven’t been hurt. Please, tell me what happened?”
But she couldn’t move, could barely even think. When he’d spoken in Russian—it was as if he had been an entirely different person. His voice had been different, and his face had been different, the mouth and the muscles moving in a completely different way.
