To Surrender to a Rogue (26 page)

Sure enough, Orrichetti froze as a floorboard creaked within the storage area. His grip tightened on her arm and she felt the barrel of the pistol shift out from the folds of his coat

Snick.
The hammer cocked back as a shape flitted out from the darkness.

"For God's sake, put that away," she said in a low hiss. "It's just one of the basket lads." In the hide-and-seek light, she recognized him as the one Jack had rescued from the river.

"You there," called the conte sharply. "Why are you still here at this hour?"

"Mr. Dwight-Davis ordered me te fold up the tarps and sweep up the closets, sir. But I—I fell asleep, sor." The boy scrubbed a fist to his face. "Please, ye won't tell him, will ye? I don't want te lose my place here."

"You've done no harm, Davey," she said gently. "Would you fetch my cloak for me? Then you may run along home."

"Yes, ma'am!" The boy darted back into the storage area and emerged a moment later with her garment in his arms.

Orrichetti released his hold, allowing her to step forward and gather the jumbled folds of merino wool.

As her hands brushed against Davey's upturned palms, Alessandra decided to take a desperate chance. She slipped the incriminating letter she had taken from Orrichetti's file up his sleeve. "For Lord James," she whispered, hardly daring to breathe the words.

To her relief, the boy blinked but stayed silent In the same sweeping motion, she hitched the cloak over her shoulders, hoping the pounding of her heart was not really as loud as cannonfire. "Thank you," she added quickly.

"Now off you go," said the conte, with a curt wave.

The boy darted across the gallery without a backward look.

As she smoothed out the twist of her hood, the conte waited for the
thunk
of the front door falling shut before taking her arm again. "Well done, Alessa," he murmured. "You see—if you play your role properly, there is no reason for anyone to get hurt"

The iron gate to Alessandra's townhouse swung shut behind him, its heavy clang echoing the note of his own inner alarm bell. Quickening his steps, Jack hurried across the street to where Marco was walking the lathered horses.

"Her butler says that her carriage dropped her at the Society headquarters, but she has not returned."

"Alessa often loses track of time when she is working," pointed out Marco.

He shook his head. "No—not when Isabella is concerned. Alessandra was supposed to pick her up from her art lesson, but never appeared. Herr Lutz walked Isa home instead."

Marco swore under his breath. "Where is the Society's townhouse?"

"Not far." Jack checked the priming of his pistol. "Grab your weapons. I suggest we go on foot, just to be safe—though I can't imagine Bellazoni would dare try anything there. Not with Orrichetti quartered on the top floor."

"She must be there. Surely she wouldn't have gone back to the excavation site alone."

"I..." Jack felt his heart start to hammer against his ribs. "I can't imagine she would be that foolhardy." The trouble was, he
could
imagine it. There were any number of ways that Bellazoni could lure her into abandoning any thought for her own safety. If she feared that Isabella was in trouble...if she thought that one of the workers had been injured...

Gulping down his fears, he spun around. "Follow me. There's a shortcut through Beauford Square."

As they reached Gay Street, Jack saw that the only light in the building was a faint glow in one of the upper windows. "The workrooms are dark—where the devil has she gone?" he muttered, his sense of unease rising another notch. "Thank God Orrichetti looks to be at home. Maybe he can help us."

But a quick search of the place revealed that both the galleries on the ground floor and Orrichetti's suite of rooms were vacant.

"There's not a soul around," confirmed Marco, emerging from the back stairwell. "The storage rooms are empty and the attics are locked from the outside." He took a last look at Orrichetti's sitting room before shutting the door. "Nothing looks amiss. It appears that he has just stepped out for a short while."

Jack was already heading out the door. "Let's check back at Alessandra's townhouse, then I shall go ask Haverstick if he has any idea of where she might be. After that, I'll saddle a fresh horse and head for the site."

"Wait—Tin coming with you," called Marco.

Too preoccupied to answer, Jack began trying to map out a strategy. But there were so many unanswered questions... Had something sparked Frederico to panic? Had Alessandra been frightened into taking a dangerous risk?

Slapping his gloves against his palm, he swore a silent oath. And then added a prayer. The site seemed the logical place to check next, but in his gut, he knew that she could be anywhere.
Anywhere.

Fighting down a sense of helplessness, he crossed the street and cut back into Beauford Square. Action would, at least, keep fear at bay.

"Lord Giacomo—Jack." Marco caught up to him and put a hand on his sleeve. "We may not find Alessa at the site—"

"I damn well know that," he growled, shaking off the touch. "If she is not there, we will marshal our resources to widen the search. You'll contact Lynsley and convince him to use his network to locate her whereabouts, while I'll call on my brothers and my father to muster their military contacts." Whether that would be enough was something he refused to think about

"Lord James!"

He looked up to see Dwight-Davis strolling toward him, a large package clasped in his arms.

"My, my, how I should like such a military stride." The scholar made a wry face. "Alas, I simply have to toddle along at my own pace."

Jack slowed to a halt

"Not the nicest weather for a walk," continued Dwight-Davis. "But
Scientia est lux lucis
—knowledge is enlightenment. I just received these new reference books from London and thought I would drop them off at the Antiquities Society for tomorrow's work session. Lady Giamatti always shows up at the crack of dawn, so I wouldn't want to make her wait."

"Do you know where she is now?"

"Well, I had to leave the site around noon..."

Jack started to curse his ill luck when the scholar added, "But Eustace saw her drive off with Orrichetti in his carriage not more than half an hour ago."

Feeling a little foolish, he let his pent-up tension release in a long exhale. A ride with the conte was nothing to worry about...

"Oh, and Bellazoni was with them as well."

The bream caught in Jack's throat.

"I daresay we have been working them so hard, they haven't had a moment to reminisce."

"Did Eustace say which way they went?" asked Jack in a measured voice.

The scholar pursed his lips. "I'm afraid not"

"No matter." Catching Marco's eye, he cocked a nod at the far entrance gate to the square.

"Now, about that essay you suggested I read, Lord James—"

"You had best hurry and get inside." Jack flicked a raindrop from the wrapping paper. "Before the books get wet."

"Indeed, indeed!" Dwight-Davis gave a baleful look at the heavens before rushing off.

"Let's go—and quickly," said Jack, his nerves once again on edge. "I don't trust Bellazoni farther than I can spit"

Gravel crunched beneath their loping strides, the rough, sharp sound scaring a pair of ravens from their perch atop an ornamental fountain.

Jack was suddenly aware of a smaller figure shadowing their steps. He signaled for Marco to stop. "Aye, lad."

"I been watching fer ye—"

"Slow down. Catch your breath."

The boy drew in several great gulps of air and rubbed a ragged sleeve to his nose. "Sorry, sor," he stammered, still gasping for breath. "I been looking all over fer ye. The lady..." Unclenching a fist, the boy revealed a folded piece of paper. "She passed this te me all secret-like and whispered that I was te give it to you."

Jack snatched it up and quickly smoothed out the creases. He skimmed over the writing, then shoved it in his coat pocket. "You know the lady's house. Run there as fast as you can, and tell the butler—Ferraro is his name—to bar the door and let no one near Isabella until I return.
No one!
Understand?"

"Yes, sor!"

To Marco, he barked, "Come on!"

"But—"

"I'll explain later! We haven't a moment to lose!"

The pungent scent of the sea hung heavy in the damp anas the carriage rolled through the outskirts of Bristol, The sky had cleared for a short while, but now the last vestiges of sunset were barely visible through the encroaching clouds. Alessandra brushed the mist from the glass, watching the harbor loom larger and larger. Against the hazed streaks of burnt orange and dusky mauve, the masts and rigging of the ships looked like a giant web woven by a rum-drunk spider.

She turned away from the window, trying to keep a brave face. Terror knotted her insides, and a tiny trickle of sweat snaked down her spine. Once she set foot aboard the yacht, Alessandra sensed that her fate would be sealed. Never again would she see Isabella.

Oddly enough, that thought gave her strength.

Pietro and Frederico had taken her husband, they had taken her good name, and for over a year they had taken her peace of mind. She wouldn't let them take her daughter or the rest of her life. James Jacquehart Pierson had rekindled a spark of hope. Of joy.
Of love.

Of all the absurd ironies that a man named 'Black Jack' had brought such light into her heart She could feel its glow deep inside her, fighting to keep darkness at bay.

Yes, it was time to fight back.

But how?

Through the fringe of her lashes, Alessandra looked at the two men sitting across from her. Frederico was too restless to sit still. He kept up a constant fidgeting— crossing and recrossing his legs, gnawing at his thumb, toying with the fittings of his pistol, all the while shooting her dark looks. Was he having second thoughts about the conte's decision to change their plans? Frederico liked to be the one in command, as she well remembered.

Orrichetti, on the other hand, appeared to be napping. His head was resting against the squabs, and his eyes were closed, his face relaxed, his mouth curled in a soft half smile. But she somehow doubted he was sleeping.

Of the two, he frightened her far more than Frederico.

Click. Click.
"We're nearly there."
Click. Click.
As if to punctuate his words, Frederico cocked and uncocked the pistol several times in succession.

"Si, si."
Orrichetti patted back a yawn. "Do stop that before you shoot off one of your testicles."

The clicking ceased.

In the uneasy silence, the galloping thud of her heart seemed amplified by the prison of polished wood. In the weak light of the carriage lamp, the shadowed space appeared to be closing in on her. For one wild moment, she contemplated grabbing for Frederico's weapon. It was madness, of course—she would be overpowered in an instant. But if she was going to die anyway, taking one of the miscreants with her was a tempting thought

If she got her finger on the trigger, she would not waste the bullet on Frederico's balls.

No.
Knotting her hands in her lap, she stayed still. Her erstwhile friends considered themselves diabolically clever. Well, she must use her brain to figure out a way to outwit them.

"What if the crew refuses to sail us across to France?" demanded Frederico abruptly.

"They won't" Orrichetti finally opened his eyes and gave a feline stretch. "They are
English
to the bone. And the captain will follow their absurd code of honor to the letter. Trust me, they would sail through the gates of hell if a lady's life was at stake."

Frederico finally appeared to relax. "The
Inglieze.
How pitifully easy they are to manipulate," he said with a smirk. In the wavering light his eyes had a slitted, serpentine look. Flat and utterly devoid of emotion. "Almost as easy as you, Alessa. But then, you have the same blood in your veins."

"Yes," she replied softly.
"I
have only half of a Machiavellian mind. But don't be so sure that cunning will conquer courage."

"Brains always win out over brawn," said Orrichetti. "Do remember that, Alessa." He slanted a glance through the window. "Ah, we are coming up to the docks. Freddi, you will stay here and keep our lovely companion company, while I make a quick reconnaissance of the area." A self-satisfied smile flitted over his lips as he consulted his pocketwatch. "By my calculations, the crew should all be gathered in the galley for tea." Tucking the gold oval back in his waistcoat, he leaned forward in his seat and rapped a signal for the carriage to stop. "It's yet another weakness of the English. You can set your clock by their little rituals."

Frederico gave a nasty little laugh. "How true. They are so predictable. So regimented in their routines." He cut a mocking flourish through the air. "The English have no imagination. Lord James is a perfect example. For weeks we have been scheming and he had no idea of what was going on right under his nose."

"He might surprise you," replied Alessandra, more to buck up her own spirits than to offer any real threat.

The gun barrel danced close to her face. "You had better pray he does not."

"That's enough, Freddi." Orrichetti laid a finger on the pistol and pushed it away. "There is no need for posturing. And you, Alessa—try not to taunt him."

Muttering darkly, Frederico set his shoulders back against the plush upholstery.

"I'll remind you once again that we all have reason to cooperate. We've come this far without any trouble. Let us keep it that way." The softness of Orrichetti's voice did not belie the note of command. The punishment would be swift and sure, for any disobedience.

The carriage door opened just enough to allow the conte to slip out But as it swung back, Alessandra gave a twitch of her cloak, so that a corner of the hem caught in the molding, just enough to prevent the latch from locking.

Frederico, still talking to himself and checking his reflection in the glass, didn't notice. His contempt for her was obvious. And it was making him careless.

The tiny act of rebellion sparked a small flare of confidence. She no longer had to reach the brass handle. A simple push would open the door. Not that she had any clear plan of how to make use of her trick.

Not yet But if she was to have any hope of escape, it had to be done quickly, in the short interlude while the conte was absent

Think.
Surely she was smarter than Frederico.

Her gaze flitted around the interior of Orrichetti's rented carriage. Neither die lacquered paneling nor the brass fittings offered much in the way of a weapon. Thick velvet fabric made up the cushions and the draperies— hardly a match for flint and steel. Alessandra let her eyes linger a little longingly on the holster where the carriage pistol normally hung. But of course Orrichetti was no fool. It was empty. There was little else to see in the smoky light of the oil lamp...