Chapter 9
Emily nudged Iris from her reverie, whispering. “It’s been four minutes, and I heard two taps. Are you ready?”
Iris gave a firm nod, and they turned together to descend to the door, Emily praying it wouldn’t creak and betray their presence.
“It’s stuck,” Iris whispered, pushing her shoulder against the iron-barred oak. She shook her head, frantic, as Emily lowered her basket to join in the effort.
It had to open. For several moments Emily struggled against the panic she had promised to fight, terrified of the airless confinement, of being caught by the radicals in the tower. God help the devil who had braved their revenge to warn her. He had entrusted an unknown woman with knowledge that would endanger many lives if she did not keep his secret. And she had trusted him, neither one of them having much choice in the matter.
The heavy door opened with a force that knocked it against the stone wall. The echo resonated in the stairwell. Emily heard the clatter of heavy boots above the trapdoor. There was no time to think. She picked up her basket, took Iris’s hand, and plunged into the evening dark.
? ? ?
The seven conspirators at the table froze in the aftermath of the reverberation. Damien had returned to his chair. Attuned to the slightest noise from below, he doubted he would have reached the trapdoor again before the others and made no effort to try. With everyone diverted, he reached into the corner, felt for the hidden letter, and tucked it inside his shirt. Then he withdrew his pistol from his waistcoat and aimed it at the bolt that lifted open the trap.
“Stay here,” he ordered the other men in the room. “I will take care of this. I have already been seen about the estate. I won’t raise the suspicions that the rest of you will.”
Lord Ardbury had removed his own gun from beneath his greatcoat. He glanced at the farmer who had reached the trap before Damien took a step. “Go down as fast as you can, Weltry. Do not let whoever that was escape.”
“What if it was Lord Fletcher?” Major Buckland asked, his pigeon-chested figure stretching over the table.
“Then he was spying on us and has written his own death warrant.”
The journalist rose from the table and pushed aside the chair that Damien had drawn to the window. “I think I see two people running for the woods.”
“Find them,” Ardbury said, his voice fading as Damien drew the trap bolt and descended into the stairwell. “Give chase, or all we have planned is lost.”
? ? ?
Emily practically threw herself at the slight figure hurrying along the secluded walkway to the house. “Lucy! Lucy, help us. Hide us. Something horrible has happened.”
Lucy took one look at them and reached out a hand to calm a case of what Emily realized must appear to be unwarranted hysterics. “What is it? You couldn’t find your clothes? It is nothing. I have more ball gowns than I could ever wear. It is your father we—”
“There are men in the tower.” Emily paused to draw a breath. “Diana’s fears about your father were justified.”
“Who are we running from?” Lucy asked in confusion, letting Emily sweep her toward the verge of the encroaching woods. “If—” She fell silent, as if entranced, and stared over her shoulder. “That must be one of them now. He looks very intimidating, I must say, and I believe he saw us—” She broke off to catch her breath. “Wasn’t he the man talking earlier to Michael? Emily, hide with Iris in the trees. Let me run back to the house.”
“We stumbled upon traitors who think that two gypsy women overheard their plot. They’re going to hunt us down. We need a distraction. Can you do something to divert their attention without endangering yourself? And don’t repeat what I told you to anyone but Diana.”
“But your father—”
“Assuming I am still alive in the morning, I’ll try to explain what happened.”