No, said her brain instantly as it contemplated the veritable forest of people, suitcases, birdcages, outdoor furniture, and at least one personal commode that she’d have to navigate in order to reach the train. But “Yes, all right,” said her mouth, of course. “I’ll fetch it.”
Samuel grinned. “Thanks, miss!” He waved to someone—at least, that was how it appeared, confusingly, to Beth, until he pointed at the locomotive, and she understood he was giving her directions. “If you go down the other side of the train, it’ll be quicker.”
“Hm,” Beth replied wearily. A drop of rain splashed against her hand; squinting at the sky, she winced as another fell onto her face. Samuel handed her an umbrella from the luggage trolley.
“Good luck,” he said. “I believe in you!”
A little taken aback by this enthusiastic declaration of faith in her purse-fetching ability, Beth murmured thanks, then hurried away. Moving around the head of the locomotive, she balked at how eerily quiet it was on the other side, between the train and the imposing terminal building. Darkness stretched before her, speared here and there by dim lamplight from a few carriage windows whose blinds had not been fully closed. She questioned the wisdom of proceeding, but there was no time to dither. The ferry would be leaving soon.
“Blast and botheration,” she muttered as she hurried alongside the train. Rain began to drizzle more steadily, requiring her to open the umbrella. Beneath its black oilcloth, the nightseemed even more ominous. Beth paused, thinking that she really ought to turn back.
Suddenly, a low, sinister whistle slid through the darkness. Beth stopped, every hair on her arms rising. She knew that sound. A strix owl was calling out in distress.
Nonsense, she told herself.I’m imagining things.The strix owl was a vanishingly rare bird located solely in the Scottish Highlands. It would not be crying in the dark of a French ferry terminal.
And yet there went the sound again, coiling around her heart, making her shiver with a disconcerting chill.
She crept forward, listening intently. Perhaps a storm had blown the bird across the Channel. Perhaps it had escaped from an aviary. Whatever the case may be, she was constitutionally incapable of ignoring a bird in trouble.
Just then, the darkness ahead rippled. Beth instinctively edged closer to the train, angling her umbrella like a shield. A man was creeping along the side of the building, a small pipe between his lips. As he passed through a shaft of light, Beth recognized Herr Oberhufter’s secretary, Mr. Schreib (or possibly Schreib’s identical twin, her brain offered with a pedantry she really did not appreciate right now). He blew on the pipe, and once again the whistle of a strix owl echoed uncannily through the night.
I knew the bird couldn’t be here!Beth thought with rather smug gratification.
Er, please note that this is a trap, her brain countered, her heart pounding in agreement.
Another figure emerged from behind Schreib. “I wish they’d hurry up and get here,” he grumbled, huddling within a black trench coat. “I’m freezing.”
“Trust me, Cholmbaumgh, they’ll come,” Schreib said. “And then we’ll kill two birds with one stone.”
“But what if the footman couldn’t convince—”
“Trust me,” Schreib reiterated, and blew the whistle again.
“I almost feel sorry for Miss Pickering,” Cholmbaumgh said over the eldritch cry. “Nice lady. She’s not going to know what hit her.”
Beth gasped. The sound might have revealed her presence, but luckily at that moment both men chuckled in a manner she could only describe as unequivocally malevolent, and which a less educated person would call “nasty.” She urged herself to flee, but a lifetime of remaining perfectly still while watching birds had overdeveloped the habit, and she was frozen to the spot. Any second now the men would notice her, and all would be lost.
Suddenly, a hand clamped over her mouth. She had no time to panic before an arm came about her waist and she was being pulled against a strong, masculine body (or perhaps one of a lady athlete—Beth did not wish to judge). Her heels bashed against boot-clad legs and her umbrella swooped as she was hauled into the space between two carriages.
Supposing herself about to be murdered, Beth found her life flashing before her eyes. But it had not even finished going through her childhood before she was set again on her feet and turned around. The hand lifted from her mouth, to be replaced immediately with one finger. A dim strand of light from the station’s lamps showed that she’d been rescued by Devon Lockley.
He took her umbrella and closed it. The latch clicked slightly, and both Beth and he held their breath.
“Is someone there?” came Schreib’s voice. Its sharp toneseemed to echo with the smack of a fist. The sound of footsteps began to move slowly near.
Devon crouched down, pulling Beth with him, and they crawled under the wrought-iron gangway platform of one carriage. Huddled together, they barely breathed as Schreib approached.
“Hello?” the man called out. Beth watched wide-eyed as he stalked past the gap between the carriages, closely followed by Cholmbaumgh, who paused, glancing in, his expression writhing with shadows and smoky lamplight.
Beth’s life resumed flashing before her eyes—
And Cholmbaumgh shrugged, then moved away.
Devon exhaled in relief. Beth attempted to do the same, but the breath shuddered in her throat.
Devon grasped her hand in a firm grip. With his other hand, he stroked her arm. Outrageous! Rakishly scandalous! Actually quite soothing! Beth began to relax, despite being huddled closely with a scoundrel in a small, dark space.
Unchaperoned.
