“There! That man there!” A shout rose above the din of the passageway. “He plays the violin!”
Luke turned to see one of the guards who’d been knocked unconscious by the nun. He was pointing a finger at Luke.
“The fiddler,” the man sneered.
Luke swore and edged backward. It was too late to run. He dropped against the wall, trying to disappear into the shadows, but guards were suddenly on all sides. They hauled him up; large hands on his biceps and a sword flat against his back.
“This way, Fiddler,” said the guard on his right. “The comte would see you.”
The comte?Luke thought, struggling to stay on his feet as they dragged him along. Why would Surcouf want to see him? Luke had been hassled by the two guards before Sister Marie struck them, but only because they thought he was a thief. He’d not said a name; no one of consequence had gotten a look at his face.
Luke went slack, forcing the guards to drag his full weight. While they struggled, he strategized. Surcouf would recognize him, no doubt. Oh, the irony. The moment he’d decided to forgo this confrontation, he could not avoid it. Except now he was at a disadvantage. Instead of charging in or sneaking in, he’d be hauled in by seven guards.
“What use has the comte for a fiddler?” Luke asked the guard, trying to make his shite French accent sound Bavarian.
“He’s not even French,” observed another guard.
“Where is your home?” asked the guard on his left.
“Munich,” Luke said, trying to sound irrelevant and harmless. Meanwhile, he was never more certain about his decision. He didn’t want to fight a French sadist; he wanted to reunite with his beautiful wife, and live on his estate, and save her little storybook village, and raise sheep. He wanted to provide peace and comfort. He wanted a workshop for boatbuilding, where he might work with his father and, God willing, his children. He wanted to die an old man surrounded by his family and in love with his wife. He wanted tolive.
“You caught sight of the princess,” explained one of the guards. “She’s vanished and the comte will speak to anyone who’s seen her.”
Luke stopped thinking about sheep. His blood turned to ice. He jerked against the guards’ hold to see who’d said it. The man had been one of the nun’s victims. Dried blood streaked across his temple, coloring his eyebrow red.
“Yes, he did,” agreed another guard. Luke forced himself not to look. Terror gripped him, but he kept slack and forced them to drag him. He creased his face into an expression of confusion. Linus had been spared because he’d surrendered. Surcouf knew Luke, and he’d enjoy no such mercy. However, until he came face-to-face with the Frenchman, everyone else should assume he is a harmless fiddle player. It was his only chance to harbor a small moment of surprise.
He thought back to what the guard said.The princess vanished, and the comte will speak to anyone who’s seen her.
Why would the bludgeoned guards know the woman who’d called for help in that corridor was a princess? She’d been wearing the crown, but they’d seen her for all of three seconds before the nun had knocked them unconscious. And there would be no shortage of crowns at this ball.
“What princess?” Luke asked in his fake-German, terrible French accent. The guards had pushed him through the doors to the ballroom. They loitered at the edge of the dance floor, holding Luke’s drooping form between them. Revelers turned to stare, bemused or intrigued. Footmen stepped around them. The party danced on.
Luke knew from his reconnaissance that Surcouf would hold court on a raised dais in a side wing of his great hall. He and preferred guests would have private seating under the watchful eye of a military detachment. They would enjoy their own buffet, finer wine, and personal attendants. This is where the guards would take Luke. Surcouf was too much of a showman to interrogate him in private.
“What princess?” Luke tried.
“Shut up,” snapped one of the guards. They moved on, dragging him around the corner of the dance floor.
“No, tell him,” said another. “He’ll be expected to relay the Comte d’Moulac what he saw.”
“Her Serene Highness, Danielle d’Orleans,” explained another guard. “Daughter of Prince Philip; niece to King Louis. She’s long been betrothed to the Comte d’Moulac but living in exile outside of France. She’s come home—come here, to this very ball—but the comte cannot locate her among the guests. Lavigne and Durand have reported seeing a beautiful young woman deep in the castle and she was crying for help. When they went to her, a robed phantom attacked them with a club and restrained them. When they came to, the young woman was gone.”
“You were there, Fiddler,” the wounded guard called from behind Luke. “You saw her.”
“I saw nothing,” Luke tried, his heart in his throat.
“That is a lie. The three of us ran to her. Did you take a blow to the head, too?”
Luke considered claiming that he had, any cursory inspection by Vincent Surcouf would reveal that he was no Bavarian fiddler, that he was an English privateer who’d approached the man three times this year, demanding the release of Linus Welty. Within minutes, the dungeon would be checked; after that, the woods behind the castle would be scoured for the missing prisoner and—
Luke was seized by a fear so chilling, he couldn’t breathe. Surcouf knew that Danielle was here; hesearchedfor Danielle. Luke must redirect. He must break free before he was hauled before Surcouf and recognized. He must protect—
“And don’t you dare claim you’ve seen nothing,” threatened the guard with the bloody gash. “The Comte d’Moulac will end this party, clear the guests, and tear the castle apart, looking for the missing princess. Given the choice, no man in service wants that. We’ll not sleep or eat for days. Think back to the corridor; tell the comte every single thing you remember about the girl. If you weren’t knocked unconscious, you may be the only one who saw which way she was taken.”
“I saw nothing,” Luke tried again. He scrambled backward, trying to stop their forward motion. Panic was a riptide; he was suffocated by fear.
“Think harder,” the guard accused, dragging him. “And mind the impertinence. You’ll show only deference and compliance to the comte. Give him your clearest memory of the girl. Everything you saw, exactly as it happened.”
