Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (28 page)

Idiot!
my inner voice mocked.
It’s
his
name on the second line of the announcement. People will see Rochefort, and know he is the genius inventor. You, my girl, are nothing more than his wife.

Nothing more?
Nothing more, indeed. I was Araminta Christabel Galsworthy Rochefort, the girl who was going to fly!

While Julian finished his calculations, I retrieved a stack of good writing paper from the desk drawer, sharpened my quill, and began the first fair copy of the announcement. But when I reached the date line, I paused, my doubts flooding back. “When I write this, we are committed,” I said. “Only ten days, Julian? Can we do it?”

“Would I have insisted on the date if I thought we could not?”

Men!

I settled in for a marathon session of writing. After the third copy, I suggested a trifle tartly, “You might write one or two yourself.”

Julian, seated on the sofa, looked up from the list he was making at his portable writing desk. “With my handwriting, my dear? Half London would be gathering in Regency Park for a fireworks display.”

A point I could not argue. With a sigh I returned to the announcement of the diversion we hoped would play a pivotal role in changing our world.

I set the
oil can down on the workbench, wiped my hands on a rag, and heaved a small sigh. My clockwork engine was ready, my basket-swing ready; the oiled silk balloon of rich burgundy red, also ready. No matter how many times I visited my workshop, no matter how many times I checked each gear and pin, each rope, ring, hinge, and clasp, there was nothing more to be done. Tomorrow, the various pieces would be moved to the park, next to
Aurora
, and assembled. Julian was so certain it would work, he had allowed only three days for testing before
Maia
would be tucked inside
Aurora
, along with Lexa and Pho
ebe, for the journey to London.

I untied my leather apron and hung it on a hook, then paused for one last look around. When we returned to the Abbey, would it be in triumph? Or was this my last look at my workshop, the precious gift which told me more certainly than anything else that Julian cared about me, that he wanted me for more than an ornament and mother of his children.

Julian. Who was strong enough to appreciate a woman with a mind of her own.

A smile hovered as I re-lit my candle and slipped the glass cylinder over it. I turned down the gaslights and took one last, loving look at the pieces of my long-time, very special project, which was about to be launched into life, thanks to Julian’s lightweight clockwork device.

My smile broadened, touched with whimsy. A well-matched pair, that’s what we were, even if love still flirted around the edges of our preoccupation with machines, darting this way and that, looking for a way in. One of these days our enjoyment of each other would make its way out of the bedroom. Oh yes, I promised myself it would.

If we lived long enough.

I opened the door to Julian’s vast workshop, nodded to the guard—

No guard.

A flurry of movement. Shadow men. A sack engulfed my head. Hands at my throat, a jerk as ties closed around my neck. I choked on a miasma of dust and was taken by a fit of coughing so severe it took me a full minute to realize I was hanging over someone’s shoulder, bouncing roughly with every hurried step.
Dear God, no! Not when we were
this
close . . .

Devil it! I was as bad as the rest of them. I was being kidnapped, and my first thought was for the fate of the monarchist plot.
Time to consider myself. The blasted revolution could wait.

The creak of heavy wooden shelves, a rush of dank air. Wine cellar. Tunnel. I shuddered. A brief pause in my captor’s pace, a soft thud as the shelves moved back in place. My eyes stung, my nose was running, the sack pressed against my nose and mouth, making breathing difficult.
Julian!

Calm. Calm!
Panic would gain me nothing. Slowly, I forced myself to stop gasping for air, to take shallow breaths, to drag my mind from edge of the abyss back to the prime working mode expected from the daughter of Josiah Galsworthy, wife of Julian, Baron Rochefort.

Yes . . . better. My mind was coming back. Focusing, though still far from prime working order. But under the circumstances . . .

A pause, another creak of wood and ancient hinges, followed by a rush of fresh night air. We were outside. Cool air penetrated the sack; gratefully, I sucked it in. A dozen more steps and I heard a whinny, an answering nicker, the soft thud of multiple hooves on earth.

Or, dear God, I was to be whisked away on horseback to some place where I’d never be found.

Julian!

My captor threw me up into a saddle. (Thank God I was wearing my bloomers.) Blessed with a moment of freedom, I reached for the sack’s ties. “
Non!
” A solid body landed hard on the horse’s withers; strong hands forced my fingers away from the drawstring. “Foolish girl. You wish to be dead?”

My captor had a French accent? As the horse began to move at a cautious walk through the copse, I examined this surprise. Surely any attempt to kidnap me must be associated with the monarchist plot . . . I was to be held hostage for . . . what? To keep Julian and
Aurora
from participating in the revolution? Surely no one would be mad enough to think they could exchange me for Lexa?

But if my captors were French . . .

Merciful heavens, how could we have forgotten Julian had enemies beyond Wellington and the government, beyond Cumberland, King of Hanover? He had told me himself that the fire in
Aurora
’s barn was likely set by rivals. And the picture-taker . . . he, too, was more likely a spy for a rival aeronautical company than for the Lord Protector.

In the last few weeks we had become so caught up in our dreams of monarchy we’d ignored the other threat.

Well . . .
merde!

If my captors were Julian’s French rivals, they had not the slightest interest in British politics. Their goal?—the plans for
Aurora,
if not the capture of the airship herself. It was possible they had no idea they were interfering with a grand plot to restore the British monarchy.

A vicious sneeze cut off my thoughts. Although I could breathe better in the open air, the sack’s rough weave rubbed against my skin, and the remains of whatever it had once held still tickled my nose. I settled down to enduring the ride, praying with every clop of the horses’ hooves that Julian had somehow become omniscient and would know just where to find me.

Hope surged when we halted after a ride of not more than ten or fifteen minutes. Or had we simply reached the road and I was to be thrust into a carriage? But no, my captor told his companion, in French, to take care of the horses. I was hauled down from the saddle, walked across rough ground, up one step. Light poured through the rough weave of the sack, I felt the glow of a fire. A cottage? I allowed myself a small smile. A cottage not more than a fifteen minutes’ ride from the Abbey, Julian would find. I knew it.

I could grasp only a few words of the rapid exchange of French between my captor and what sounded like two men waiting inside the cottage. But triumph sounded in every syllable, success was within their grasp. The secrets of
Aurora
would make them rich.

I stiffened as I felt hands at my throat. In a moment the sack was whisked away and a hard push propelled me forward. I hit the floor hard, my breath whooshing out of me. A door slammed shut. Darkness . . . but I was free of the miserable sack. Free to breathe. I stayed on my hands and knees, gulping huge breaths of clean night air. When I finally lifted my head and looked around, I could see almost nothing. I was alone. My captors had provided no candle, and the room’s single window was shuttered, letting in very little of the half-moon’s light.

As my eyes adjusted, I could make out a low bed along one wall, a rocking chair by the empty hearth. The furnishings were too meager for a hunting box . . . perhaps an abandoned gamekeeper’s cottage? No matter, Julian would find me.

But wasn’t that the whole point? I was a valuable commodity, to be kept close-by until an exchange could be made.

Yet what if I had it all wrong? What if the Frenchmen were merely hired bully-boys, their nationality designed to obscure their employer? Cumberland perhaps? For surely Wellington would never turn to his long-time enemy for help?

I dragged myself up and tried the window. The shutters budged only enough to reveal the wide boards nailed across the window from the outside. Nonetheless, I tried again. Except for the first inch, the shutters held fast. Well, of course my captors wouldn’t confine me in a room with an easy way out. What had I expected?

With a sigh of disgust, I made my way to the bed,. Hands fisted on the counterpane beside me, I stared at the thin line of light beneath the door to the outer room, where the Frenchmen were undoubtedly gloating about their success. Had Julian realized I was missing? Or had he fallen asleep, unaware that I was no longer happily occupied in my workshop?

When would my captors deliver a ransom note? For surely, whatever cause these men worked for, there would be a ransom note. If they wanted me dead, my lifeless body would be crumpled on the earthen floor of my workshop.

But no matter my captors’ intentions, Julian’s reaction would affect the monarchy. For without the high drama of
Aurora
disgorging a princess into the heart of London, there would be no revolution.

My inner voice chose that moment to ask with considerable mockery,
What’s the life of Araminta Galsworthy compared to placing Princess Victoria on the throne?

He’ll never abandon you,
my common sense insisted.

The daughter of an inventor versus the restoration of the monarchy? I shivered. It was just the shock, the gloom of night, the fear. When daylight came, Julian would know I was gone, then all would be well. He would fix this, I knew it.

Of course he would.

Julian . . .?

Chapter 22

Inevitably, I tried the bars on the window again, a classic gesture in futility. I heaved a disgusted sigh and turned toward the narrow ribbon of light under the door to the outer room. But when I put my eye to the keyhole, there was nothing but the pitch blackness of a key firmly in place. Sound, however, was a different matter. I could hear the low murmur of voices but not enough to distinguish the words. Not enough to hear the sound of footsteps—

I leapt back as the key turned in the lock, but the edge of the suddenly opening door struck me a glancing blow, and once again I found myself sprawled in an awkward heap on the floor. I shaded my eyes with one hand, blinded by the sudden light.

“You are the woman who would fly?” my captor taunted. “Rochefort is mad to send such a cringing coward into the air. All London will laugh.”

French he might be, but obviously my captor read the London newspapers. “I am not a coward! The door knocked me down.” I scrambled to my feet, facing the shadow that was beginning to take on the shape of a man.

“What else can you expect if you listen at keyholes?” His English was excellent, though tinged with a faint French accent.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” My eyes were adjusting to the light, and more than his voice indicated this was not the man who had taken me from the Abbey. He was in his thirties, of medium height and slight of build, with the surprisingly elegant features of noble birth. Judging from his perfect English, he might be from an emigré family.

He proffered a mock bow before reciting with chilling dispassion, “I am the man who is going to reveal all your husband’s fine plans to Wellington if he will not give up his airship. I am the man who will take you to Paris and sell you to a brothel if Rochefort will not give up his airship. I am the man who will put an end to a young girl’s dreams of being queen if Rochefort will not give up his airship.”

He wanted
Aurora
? And yet he knew the monarchists’ plans . . . was threatening the restoration . . . “But why?” I asked. “Surely as a Frenchman you consider Wellington an enemy?”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he returned smoothly. “I may not care who rules your benighted country, but I will do what I must to acquire the airship. For the glory of my family and for the glory of France.” He stood proudly before me, his voice ringing with genuine fervor.

Merde!
A fanatic.

A fanatic with a spy in our household.

“Rochefort will never give it up,” I returned with more fervor than good sense. “He will gobble you up like a platter of
escargot
, spit you out on good English soil, and grow cabbages on your remains.”

He cocked his eyebrows, slowly shook his head. “
Pauvre petite
. We can only hope Rochefort cares as much for you as you do for him.” He put the tips of his fingers to his lips, blew me a kiss. “The passion of the newly wed . . . so touching.”