What Happens in London (24 page)

“Prince Alexei has taken quite a fancy to you,” he said.

Her eyes widened.
Prince Alexei
had done this to her?

Her captor chuckled. “You do not hide your emotions well, Lady Olivia. It was not the prince who brought you here. But it will be the prince”—he leaned closer, menacingly, until she could smell his breath—“who will pay to bring you back.”

She shook her head, grunting, trying to tell him that the prince had not taken a fancy to her, or that if he had, he didn’t any longer.

“If you’re smart, you won’t struggle,” the man said. “You won’t free yourself, so why waste your strength?”

And yet she couldn’t seem to
stop
struggling. Absolute terror was building up within her, and she didn’t know how to keep it still.

The gray-haired man stood, gazing down at her with a tiny curve of his lips. “I will bring you food and drink later.” He left the room, and Olivia thought her throat would close in panic as she heard the click of the door shutting, followed by the turns of two locks.

She wasn’t going to be able to get out of here. Not by herself.

But did anyone even know she was gone?

W
here is she?
”

That was all Harry managed to get out before he launched himself at the prince. He had followed Vladimir to a room at the back of the house, his panic rising with each step. He knew he was being foolish; this could be a trap. Someone obviously knew he worked for the War Office; how else would Vladimir have known he spoke Russian?

He could be walking toward his own execution.

But it was a chance he had to take.

Still, when he saw the prince standing there, illuminated by a single candle on a bare table, Harry snapped. His fear made him even stronger, and when they both hit the floor, it was with stunning force.

“Where is she?” Harry yelled again. “What have you done with her?”

“Stop!” Vladimir wedged himself between the two men, pulling them apart. It was only when Harry was standing again, held an arm’s length from the prince, that he realized Alexei had not fought back.

The terror in the pit of his stomach grew. The prince looked pale, grim. Frightened.

“What is going on?” Harry whispered.

Alexei handed him a piece of paper. Harry took it over to the candle and looked down. It was written in Cyrillic; Harry didn’t protest. This was not the time to pretend he could not read it.

Harry looked up. “How do we know it’s her? They don’t mention her by name.”

Wordlessly, Alexei held out his hand. Harry looked down. It was a lock of hair. Harry wanted to say that it might not be hers, that there could be another woman with hair that color, that unbelievable shade of sun and butter, with the same amount of curl, not a ringlet but more than a wave.

But he knew.

“Who wrote this?” he asked. In Russian.

Vladimir spoke first. “We think—”

“You
think
?” Harry roared. “You
think
? You had better start knowing, and damned soon. If anything happens to her…”

“If anything happens to her,” the prince cut in with icy precision, “I will cut out their throats myself. There will be justice.”

Harry turned to him slowly, trying to hold back the
roiling acid in his belly. “I don’t want justice,” he said, his voice low and flat with rage. “I want
her
.”

“And we will get her,” Vladimir said quickly. He shot the prince a look of warning. “She will not come to harm.”

“Who
are
you?” Harry demanded.

“It does not matter.”

“I think it does.”

“I work also for the War Office,” Vladimir said. He shrugged a little. “Sometimes.”

“Pardon me if you fail to capture my trust.”

Vladimir looked at him again, that hard, direct stare that had unnerved Harry back in the ballroom. It was clear that he was much more than the menacing manservant he pretended to be.

“I know Fitzwilliam,” Vladimir said in a low voice.

Harry froze. No one knew Fitzwilliam—not unless he wanted them to. His mind reeled. Why would Winthrop have ordered him to observe Prince Alexei if they already had Vladimir in place?

“Your man Winthrop did not know about me,” Vladimir said, anticipating Harry’s next question. “He is not high enough to know about me.”

As far as Harry knew, the only person higher up than Winthrop was Fitzwilliam himself. “What is going on?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

“I am not a sympathizer of Napoleon,” Prince Alexei said. “My father was, but I”—he spat on the floor—“am not.”

Harry looked at Vladimir.

“He does not work with me,” Vladimir said, motioning with his head toward the prince. “But he is
…supportive. He has given money. And the use of his land.”

Harry shook his head. “What does this have to do with—”

“There are those who would seek to use him,” Vladimir interrupted. “He is valuable, alive or dead. I protect him.”

It was amazing. Vladimir really was Alexei’s bodyguard. One tiny truth in a web of lies.

“He is here to visit his cousin, just as he says,” Vladimir continued. “It is a convenient way for me to meet with my associates in London as well. Unfortunately, the prince’s interest in Lady Olivia did not go unnoticed.”

“Who took her?”

Vladimir looked away for a moment, and Harry knew it was bad. If he could not look him in the eye, Olivia was in grave danger indeed.

“I am not certain,” Vladimir finally said. “I can’t tell yet if there are political considerations or it is just for money. The prince is a man of considerable wealth.”

“I was told his fortunes had declined,” Harry said curtly.

“They have,” Vladimir confirmed, raising a hand to stop Alexei from defending himself. “But he still has much. Land. Jewels. More than enough for a criminal to wish to ransom someone close to him.”

“But she’s not—”

“Someone thinks I was planning to ask her to marry me,” Alexei cut in.

Harry turned on him. “Were you?”

“No. I might have considered it once. But she—” He
waved a hand dismissively through the air. “She is in love with you. I do not need a woman who will love me. But I will not tolerate one who loves someone else.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Apparently your intentions were not made clear to your enemies.”

“For that I would apologize.” Alexei swallowed, and for the first time since Harry had known him, he looked uncomfortable. “I cannot control what others think of me.”

Harry turned to Vladimir. “What do we do now?”

Vladimir gave him a look that told him he would not like what came next. “We wait,” he said. “We will be contacted again.”

“I’m not going to stand here and—”

“And what do you suggest we do instead? Interview every last guest? The note said to tell no one. We already disobeyed when we told you. If these are men like I think they are, we do not want to make them upset with us.”

“But—”

“Do you want to give them a reason to hurt her?” Vladimir demanded.

Harry felt himself choking. It was as if someone had reached up from his belly and was strangling him from the inside out. He knew Vladimir was right, or at least he knew that
he
didn’t have any better ideas.

It was killing him. The fear. The helplessness. “Someone has to have seen something,” he said.

“I am going to investigate,” Vladimir said.

Harry immediately made for the door. “I am going with you.”

“No,” Vladimir said, putting up a hand to stop him. “You have too much emotion. You will not make good decisions.”

“I can’t do nothing,” Harry said. He felt small again, young and powerless, staring down a problem only to find there were no good solutions.

“You won’t,” Vladimir assured him. “You will do much. But later.”

Harry watched as Vladimir went to the door, but before he could leave, he shouted, “Wait!”

Vladimir turned around.

“She went to the washroom,” Harry said. “She went to the washroom after…” He cleared his throat. “I know that she went to the washroom.”

Vladimir gave a slow nod. “This is good to know.” He slipped out the door and was gone.

Harry looked at Alexei.

“You speak Russian,” Alexei said.

“My grandmother,” Harry said. “She refused to speak English to us.”

Alexei nodded. “My grandmother, she was from Finland. She was the same.”

Harry gave him a long look, then sank into a chair, his head in his hands.

“It is good that you speak our language,” Alexei said. “Very few of your countrymen do.”

Harry tried to ignore him. He had to think. He didn’t know where to start, what he might possibly know that could help to determine Olivia’s whereabouts, but he knew that he had to scour his brain.

But Alexei would not stop talking. “I am always surprised when—”

“Shut up!” Harry burst out. “Just shut up. Don’t speak. Do not say a single bloody word unless it is about finding Olivia. Do you understand me?”

Alexei was very still for a moment. Then, silently, he crossed the room to a bookcase and pulled down a bottle and two glasses. He poured a liquid—vodka, probably—into both glasses. Without speaking, he set one of the glasses down in front of Harry.

“I don’t drink,” Harry said, not bothering to look up.

“It will help you.”

“No.”

“You say you are Russian? You don’t drink vodka?”

“I don’t drink anything,” Harry said curtly.

Alexei regarded him with some curiosity, then took a seat on the far side of the room.

The glass sat untouched for nearly an hour, until Alexei, finally accepting that Harry spoke the truth, picked it up and drank it himself.

After about ten minutes, Olivia finally managed to calm her body down enough to allow her mind to work properly. She had absolutely no idea what she could possibly do to aid in her rescue, but it seemed prudent to gather whatever information she could.

It was impossible to figure out where she was being held. Or was it? She scooched herself up into a sitting position and examined the room as best she could. It was almost impossible to see anything in the dim light. There had been a candle but the man had taken it with him.

The room was small, and the furnishings were sparse, but it was not shabby. Olivia nudged herself closer to the wall and squinted at the plaster. Then she rubbed her cheek against it. Neat and tidy, with no chips or peeling paint. Looking up, she saw a crown
molding where the walls met the ceiling. And the door—it was difficult to tell from where she sat on the bed, but the knob looked to be of high quality.

Was she still in the ambassador’s residence? It seemed possible. She bent over, placing her cheek against the bare skin of her arms. Her skin was warm. Wouldn’t she feel chilled if she’d been taken outside? Of course, she did not know how long she had been unconscious. It was possible she’d been here for hours. Still, she didn’t
feel
as if she’d been outside.

A panicked bubble of laughter threatened to burst from her throat. What was she
thinking
? She didn’t
feel
as if she’d been outside? What did
that
mean? Was she going to start making decisions based on gut feelings on what may or may not have happened when she was unconscious?

She forced herself to pause. She needed to calm down. She wasn’t going to be able to accomplish anything if she succumbed to hysterics every five minutes. She was smarter than that. She could keep a calm head.

She
had
to keep a calm head.

What did she know about the ambassador’s residence? She had been there twice, first during the day, when she was presented to Prince Alexei, and then at night, for the ball.

It was a huge building, a veritable mansion right in the middle of London. Surely there were myriad rooms where a person could be hidden. Perhaps she was in the servants’ quarters. She frowned, trying to remember the servants’ rooms at Rudland House. Did they have crown moldings, too? Were the doorknobs of as high a quality as the rest of the house?

She had no idea.

Damn it. Why didn’t she know that? Shouldn’t she know that?

She turned to the far wall. There was one window, but it was obscured by heavy velvet curtains. Dark red, maybe? Dark blue? It was impossible to tell. The night was sucking all of the color out of her surroundings. The only light coming in was from the moon, filtering through the semicircular window above the curtained rectangle.

She paused, thinking. Something was tapping at her memory.

She wondered if she might be able to see out the window, if she were able to maneuver herself off the bed. It would be difficult. Her ankles had been tied so tightly together there was little hope of making even baby steps. And she hadn’t realized how off balance she would feel with her hands bound behind her back.

Not to mention that she had to do everything in total silence. It would be a disaster if her captor came back and found her anywhere but on the bed, right where he’d left her. Very carefully, and
very
slowly, she swung her legs off the bed, inching her way toward the edge until her feet touched the floor. Keeping her movements similarly controlled, she was able to maneuver herself to a standing position, and then, by leaning on various pieces of furniture, she made her way toward the window.

The window. Why did the window seem so familiar?

Probably because it was a
window
, she told herself impatiently. They weren’t exactly replete with unique architectural detail.

When she reached her destination, she leaned carefully forward, trying to push the curtains aside with her face. She started with her cheek, then, once she had them pushed a bit to the side, she rolled her face forward, trying to hook the edge of the curtains with her nose. It took her four tries, but eventually she managed it, even jabbing her shoulder forward to block the curtains from falling back into place.

Resting her head against the glass, she saw…nothing. Just the fog from her breath. She moved her head to the side again, using her cheek to rub the mist away. When she faced front again, she held her breath.

Still, she couldn’t see much. The only thing she could determine for sure was that she was fairly high up, perhaps on a fifth or sixth floor. She could see the roofs of other buildings and not much else.

The moon. She could see the moon.

She had seen the moon in the other room, the one where she’d made love with Harry. She’d seen it through the fanlight window.

The fanlight window!

She edged back, very carefully so as not to lose her balance. This window also had a fanlight at the top. Which didn’t mean
much
, except there was a pattern to it, mullions spreading out from the center point on the bottom, making it look rather like a handheld fan.

Exactly
like the one downstairs.

She was still in the ambassador’s residence. It was possible that she’d been brought to another building with the exact same window pattern, but that was unlikely, wasn’t it? And the ambassador’s residence was huge. Practically a palace. It was not in central
London but rather out past Kensington, where there was quite a bit more room for such grand buildings.