They stepped outside.
Raul tilted his face toward the sun, let the light bathe him, warm him. “We do have to do something about her, don’t we?”
“With Jean-Pierre sniffing around you, I would say it is imperative to somehow quiet her.”
“Yes.” For the first time, Raul allowed the floodgates of his memory to open wide, and all the soft sensations of holding Victoria seized him: her surprised lips opening beneath his, the soft weight of her breasts against his chest, the scents of lavender and vanilla in her hair. The remembrance spun him into a whirlpool of desire, and swiftly, before Thompson could see his face, he donned his hat and started walking back toward the stands.
“I’ll take care of Miss Cardiff. In fact, in pursuit of that goal … I believe it’s time to disrupt the prince’s ball.”
“Is it really, sir?” Thompson’s voice rose with his eagerness as the long-anticipated plan was announced.
“I’ll let the men know. This will make them very happy.”
“Go, then, and tell them.” As he watched Thompson walk with speed and determination toward the road, Raul’s own excitement rose.
For so long, he had remained a master chess player, moving himself and others into position, keeping himself guarded in word and deed. Everything he did and said was aimed at one goal— to take back his country from the tyrants. He had created incidents aimed at undermining the de Guignards ’ control, at shaking their iron-fisted grip on the vast flow of money that flooded the country’s gambling houses and spas. But those moments, while exhilarating, had been brief and heady.
Now, tonight, he was starting the first careful steps toward revolution— and at the same time—
his heart pounded, his mouth dried— he had no choice. Tonight, he would take Victoria.
Chapter Thirteen
Victoria’s first indication that something was very wrong occurred when she returned to her room after bringing Maude and Effie to their mother to have their ball gowns inspected. Mrs. Johnson had approved, Mr. Johnson had scowled and tugged at his cravat, and Victoria had left the family with Mrs. Johnson’s maid, who would make the finishing touches to the girls’ costumes.
Now Victoria entered the suite she shared with the girls, went to the dressing table, and lifted the small, white lace cap that awaited her there.
The cap was an important part of her costume. The dark blue silk was a gift from the Johnsons, a beautiful material, but modestly cut, and the white collar and cuffs were stiff with starch. But, although at the age of twenty-one she was firmly on the shelf, she was still pretty, so she wore the lace cap as a badge so every gentleman would know she was not an available female, but a chaperone. She didn’t sigh about that; it was the way things were.
But as she stood in front of the mirror, she heard movement in the closet, and turned in time to see a maid walk out with an armful of gowns. “What are you doing?” Victoria asked sharply.
The maid jumped guiltily. “I’m taking the gowns to be ironed.”
Victoria recognized her. She was Amya, the one who spoke English, the one who had dropped the tray earlier today. “They are ironed.”
“No, Miss Cardiff, the girl who was supposed to do it is lazy. She did a bad job. I will do them myself. You’ll be more satisfied.”
Victoria had examined the gowns when they came back, and while the work wasn’t the best she’d ever seen, it was by no means the worst, either.
“We are training,” Amya added, as if that explained everything.
Victoria surrendered. “All right. But please be careful. Some of the girls’ gowns are quite expensive.”
“Yes, miss, I am the best.” Amya edged toward the door, opened it, then fled into the corridor without shutting it behind her.
Victoria stared after her. Something niggled at her, something odd… . Each and every gown the maid had held was made of dark cloth— brown, black, a second dark blue. Going to the closet, she checked the hooks.
Her suspicions were right. The maid had taken only Victoria’s gowns to be ironed. Had she stolen them?
But why steal the cheapest, the plainest of gowns? It didn’t make sense.
She stepped out the door to follow the maid.
At the same time, Maude stepped out of her parents’ suite, bright-eyed and impatient. “Here she is, Mother. Now let’s go!”
The mystery, if there was one, would have to wait.
Maude and Effie hurried over to the place on the sidelines where Victoria had seated herself in the midst of the rest of the chaperones.
“Can you believe it? The prince won’t make an appearance tonight.” Maude petulantly wadded handfuls of her rose velvet in her fists.
Victoria set aside her needlework. “Don’t wrinkle your skirt, dear.”
Maude opened her fists and smoothed them along the luxurious material. “According to the girls to whom I spoke, he hasn’t been seen at a ball for most of the summer, ever since some humiliating incident visited on him by ghastly rebels. Can you imagine ruffians doing something mean to a noble prince?”
“I heard some people say he’s not actually a prince, but from a family of usurpers.” Effie, ever more thoughtful than her sister, looked troubled.
“That’s stupid. He’s single. They should leave him alone so he’ll come to the ball.” Maude’s color was high with indignation.
“Girls,” Victoria interceded gently. “There are an abundance of gentlemen here, some quite handsome, and no doubt some quite— ”
“Wealthy!” Maude said.
“I was going to say, some quite good dancers, I’m sure. Rather than worry about Prince Sandre, I suggest you bend your mind to having a pleasant time. This is our last stop before returning to England, and the rules for young ladies will be much stricter there. Especially for you, Effie, since you are not old enough to make your debut.”
“Quite right, Miss Cardiff.” Effie whirled, her satin gown appropriately modest for a girl her age, yet handsomely done by Italian artists and seamstresses. “Maude can mope if she likes. I want to dance tonight.”
“I want to dance, too!” Maude said.
“Please remember, when you are asked, to bring the gentleman to meet your parents or, if they are otherwise occupied, to meet me. We will maintain some semblance of propriety here.” Victoria cast a cold eye over the assemblage.
“Miss Cardiff, Father is right.” Maude shook her head in a spooky imitation of Mr. Johnson.
“About what?”
“He says for such a beautiful woman, you’re an incredible stick-in-the-mud.”
“He hired me for the latter quality,” Victoria said dryly, and didn’t allow herself to feel hurt.
Was that why Mr. Lawrence had fled rather than speak to her today? Because she had incorporated the starchy qualities of a strict governess and chaperone?
But it was silly to think that. He simply hadn’t remembered her. For all that it hurt to realize those kisses that had been a seminal moment in her life meant nothing to him, had been an incident among dozens like it …
Well, it was undoubtedly the truth, and any other explanation was pure vanity.
And Victoria Cardiff did not indulge in vanity.
Not that any of it mattered. She glanced toward the crowded dance floor. He was here. Mr. Lawrence, whirling madly to the strains of the waltz, a beautiful lady in his arms. She was bedazzled, if her expression was anything to go by, and rightly so— when Raul Lawrence tossed back his fall of dark hair, he looked like one of the poets in the best romantic tradition.
Victoria adjusted her cap, picked up her needlework again.
She hoped he made no move on Maude and Effie.
Then she would have to step in. And she smiled, enjoying the thought a little too much.
The hotel ballroom shone with polished woods, gilded frames, crimson velvet curtains, and gold-fringed tie-backs.
It was, to Victoria’s eyes, vulgar and overdone. But she’d learned Europeans were differen
t, more flamboyant and aggressive, with naked, undraped statues and immodest fashions. She hoped this place was simply the pinnacle of indelicacy, and not a country where all who visited were tainted by scandal. That would be a very difficult thing to explain to any proper English suitors for Maude’s or Effie’s hands.
Yet the more she watched the assembly, the more she wondered. Gentlemen twice outnumbered the ladies, and while some women seemed perfectly respectable, others were less so, laughing too loud, drinking too much. Victoria even saw the occasional skirt lifted to show a silk-clad ankle. The doors opened onto the darkened terrace, and as Victoria watched, she saw more than one couple slip out, laughing. Even the chaperones gossiped among themselves rather than watching their charges, a gross negligence of duty.
Victoria put her needlework aside. She wished now that she hadn’t urged Mr. Johnson to allow the girls to have a bit of innocent fun before they returned home.
She feared any fun they had would not be so innocent after all.
If she hadn’t been watching so closely, she wouldn’t have noticed the masked, dark-clad men slipping into the crowd from the open doors. At first she thought they must be servants preparing some kind of play to entertain the guests. But they moved aggressively, pushing the gentlemen aside, smiling cockily at the women.
Nerves prickling, Victoria slowly came to her feet.
More men came in, right through the doors where, when she entered the ballroom, she had seen guards standing at attention. At the time she had thought it inappropriate to put them where they could be so clearly seen wearing pistols and clutching swords. Now she wondered where they had gone.
The dark-clad men started moving counterclockwise around the ballroom, pushing the guests to do the same.
They were like spoons stirring the soup, creating eddies of people who stumbled and grumbled, then gradually grew worried.
Victoria started to go to find her charges. Then, with a thought to safety, she backtracked, got the needle out of her embroidery, and moved purposefully toward the dance floor.
But she was cut off. It was almost as if the men deliberately targeted her, catching her up, widening their circle, pushing her back toward the walls.
Something crashed— one of the servants had dropped a silver tray full of glasses.
The music screeched to a stop.
The smell of spirits and slowly burgeoning panic filled the air.
Victoria caught a glimpse of Maude, still unaware and smiling. Of Effie, looking frightened and fleeing toward her parents. Of Mr. Johnson, holding Mrs. Johnson in one arm, extending a hand to Effie, looking around for Maude …
But not for Victoria. His focus was narrow and always on his family.
As it should be.
She stumbled.
One of the masked men caught her, steadied her, then twirled her into another’s arms. And another. Their grips were impersonal, but they moved her inexorably toward an open door that led into the depths of the hotel.
She didn’t know what was there; she knew only she didn’t want to go. But the mass of people moved her in that direction. Another man grabbed her.
And she stabbed his hand with her needle.
He yelped satisfyingly, jerked his hand away, and not so satisfyingly took her needle with it. Then, with real intent, he shoved her through the door and into a darkened corridor.
A faint breeze ruffled her hair, and she smelled fresh air.
The man loomed menacingly between her and the ballroom.
In the ballroom, a woman screamed.
Picking up her skirts, Victoria ran.
Chapter Fourteen
If Victoria could get outside before that man caught up with her, she could circle around through the gardens and into the ballroom, and make sure Maude found her parents. The girl was barely a young woman. God knew what these men would do with her… .
Victoria ignored the fear hammering inside her, for if they caught her … what would they do with her?
But she should not to be so selfish, so involved in her own safety. Maude and Effie needed her.
Gasping, she reached a large, dimly lit room. She glanced around.
The kitchen. Why had she been herded toward the sinisterly empty kitchen?
And where were the cooks, the scullery maids?
Where were the servants?
A quick glance back into the corridor showed nothing, but the darkness would cloak any pursuit. Seeing the open door, she sprinted out into a small, walled garden. The scents of rosemary, of lavender, of thyme and basil and sage rose from the ground.
The cook’s herbs grew here.
The gate stood open, and Victoria hurried toward it, then paused to listen. Faintly, in the distance, she heard men’s shouts and women’s screams. But here … she heard nothing. Nothing behind her, nothing on the other side of the wall. Cautiously she stepped out.
She stood on a wide dirt path lined with tumbledown shacks. After the extravagance of the rest of the hotel, the sight of them provided Victoria with a shock. Whatever the hotel stored here, they did not value.
A quarter mile of path ended with a tall building, a farm building of some kind. She picked her way toward it, still straining to hear a sound, any sound.
The eerie quiet lifted the hair on the back of her neck.
Or was it the sense of being watched by unseen eyes that frightened her?
She reached the wooden wall, put her hand against it, and walked until she reached another door. Cautiously she pushed against it.
It opened silently.
She peered inside.
A lantern hung on a hook against the far wall. Dimly, she could see horses in their stalls, hear the soft whoosh of their breathing. The stable. She’d found the stable. No one was in sight. No one made a sound. But again, where were the servants? A stable boy should be guarding the horses… .
Warily, she stepped inside. “Is anyone here?” she called softly.
The horses pricked up their ears, turned to look at her, but no one answered. Probably the boy had heard the commotion and run out to see what it was all about.
She let out her breath on a soundless sigh.
She was safe.
Except … she had a duty to go back.
But she wouldn’t go unarmed. There were weapons here.
Her gaze roamed the walls where the tack and the tools hung.
An ax.
Too heavy.
A pitchfork.
Too long and unwieldy.
An iron hook, small enough for her to hide in her skirts, heavy enough to fend off an attacker.
Perfect.
She tiptoed toward her weapon. Lifted her hand to take it off the wall.
Strong fingers grasped her wrist, and a man’s voice said, “No, I’m afraid that’s not going to do at all.”
She looked up— into a black mask with dark, gleaming eyes.
She opened her mouth to scream.
A cloth descended over her head, muffling the sound.
She was lifted, carried, thrown like a sack of potatoes over the back of a tall, broad horse.
Her captor mounted, put his hand firmly on her back.
And they rode into the night.
The sack over Victoria’s head was thin; she could breathe, could feel the cool air as soon as they left the stables. It covered her to her knees, and when she tried to rip her way out, she found it was strong enough to obstruct her movements. The horse was high, with a smooth gait that ate up the ground. They rode through the forest; she could smell pine needles and loam.
But what good did it do her to know that? All she knew of this country was the hotel, and that was in chaos. This man who had her … She swallowed in fear.
Absurd though it seemed, this man who had her had deliberately set a trap for her. He had wanted her cut from the pack so he could take her … wherever … and do … what? Rape? Murder? Torture? Why? What did she have that any man would want?
She tried to hold hersel
f up, away from the horse, tried to ease the pressure as the blood pooled in her head.
The horse’s gait slowed to a walk.
The man, whoever he was, picked her up by her waist and sat her upright before him. Their speed increased once more.
Her head swam as her equilibrium righted itself.
“What do you want?” she asked.
The sound of her voice was muffled, she knew, but she also knew he heard her.
He didn’t answer.
She hadn’t even screamed. Damn her English reserve. She had looked into that masked face, she had fought him, but she hadn’t shrieked loudly enough to get anyone’s attention. Not that there had been anyone to hear, but still, she swore if she lived through this, she would take every opportunity to scream her head off.
She could scream right now. She could feel hysteria bubbling up in her throat.
But what good would it do? The horse was climbing; she could feel the way he strained, the way the rider adjusted and guided. The air was cooler, the wind in the trees singing in muted melancholy, but she heard not a single human voice.
They had traveled into the wilderness, away from the city.
Her back hurt. Her skirts flapped. She was blind. She was frightened. As if sensing her discomfort, her abductor supported her back, but she didn’t allow herself to relax.
She was an Englishwoman. Englishwomen did not cooperate with their kidnappers.
It seemed like forever, but she thought it another half hour before she heard a man’s voice hail them.
He was speaking Moricadian.
For the first time, she remembered that her kidnapper had spoken to her in English.
Was he an Englishman?
No. No Englishman would behave so shamefully. No Englishman, except for …
But no, that was unlikely in the extreme.
The horse’s hooves struck on stone, the sound echoing upward.
More voices, men and women, all speaking Moricadian. Light showing through the cloth.
Victoria’s heartbeat picked up speed.
The horse slowed. The rider dismounted and pulled her off and into his arms in one easy movement. He walked, still holding her, inside a building, through a large room filled with voices, laughter, and the scent of food. He climbed stairs, leaving the voices behind, into alternating patches of dark and light. He turned sideways as if passing through a door. Light leaked through the cloth. A woman spoke, saying something that elicited his grunt of approval.