How To Distract a Duchess (27 page)

“Not all of them,” Naresh admitted. “But if you pluck a single thread, will a cloth not unravel?”

Artemisia rolled the cylinder between her palms, knowing it represented countless men and women who were trying to continue the work her father began and Trev was pledged to bring to fruition. A plan began to take shape in her mind to protect those unknown Players, much as Naresh and Rania had shielded her family during the dark days of the sepoy mutiny. A plan that would hopefully see Trev and Mr. Shipwash freed as well.

“I know a man who wants to pluck that thread and pick up where Father left off,” she said. “But I fear he’s in terrible trouble and I need your help, both of you.”

Then she laid out the rough idea that had just come to her. Cuthbert and Naresh listened without comment until she was finished.

“Will you help me?”

Naresh smiled at her. “Even though you were not a child of my body, since I first dandled you on my knee, you have been the child of heart. It pains me that you must ask if I will help you.”

She stood on tiptoe to place a kiss on his sunken cheek. Then she turned to Cuthbert.

He didn’t say anything.

“Cuthbert?” His hesitation surprised her.

“Madam, I greatly fear that once I confess to you my activities of late, you will require neither my help nor my continued service in this house.” Cuthbert stood ramrod straight and unblinking, but a muscle ticked on his jaw, the only outward sign of his inner agitation. “My motives were of the highest order, you understand, but I now realize I have done you a grave disservice through my actions.”

With a queasy belly, Artemisia sank onto her straight-backed chair. “What have you done?”

“I have served Southwycke since I could walk, and it has ever been my aim—nay, my chief goal in life—to see the reputation of this house held in highest esteem,” Cuthbert said, unable to meet her eyes. “When you chose to flout convention with your choice of artistic subject, I thought perhaps the weight of public opinion might sway you to pursuits more appropriate to your station.”

“And you didn’t consider that sitting in judgment of my behavior was inappropriate to
your
station?” she said archly.

He nodded miserably. “Indeed, Your Grace, the thought crossed my mind more than once, but as I said, I felt I was acting for your greater good.”

“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 after 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.

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.