Page 5

"And yet the phaeton remained convinced gravity was the greater danger." Rodrick pushed through the next door with his shoulder. "I should like Miss Bonnechoix delivered with approximately the same number of limbs she possessed when loaded."

James had carried documents across borders in his boots, escaped a Russian checkpoint dressed as a priest, and once driven Rodrick forty miles through weather that had persuaded three armies to stop moving. He could certainly manage one unconscious ballerina beneath a heap of towels, and yet Rodrick's hands stayed at the cart.

James glanced toward the heap of linen. "I assume the cargo is delicate."

Images of her stage stunt flashed in Rodrick's mind—flames of red and orange tulle, chin lifted, voice compelling enough to command a regiment.

"Extremely. French, political, with a killing grand jeté. And before you threaten to leave my service over the nocturnal kidnapping of imperial offspring, I am adding a special allowance to your stipend."

James considered this with the gravity of a Treasury official. "Would that fall under kidnapping, sir, or foreign dignitaries?"

"Illegitimate princesses surely require their own category," Rodrick said.

"I shall amend the accounts," James said.

They passed beneath a low archway and entered the final service corridor. Cool air threaded beneath the door at its far end. Beyond it lay the yard, then the carriage. The Horse Guards were still occupied with the French invasion Miss Bonnechoix had managed to invent upstairs.

Rodrick almost regretted leaving before hearing the theories. All in all, the operation had been a resounding success, proof that providence rewarded good planning and a superior intellect.

The click of a pistol cocking broke his reverie. Colonel Sebastian Arlesford emerged from a side door and leveled his gun at Rodrick's heart. The man possessed an extraordinary talent for intruding upon his self-congratulation. Twice in one evening. A dastardly sign of ill breeding if he ever saw any. Rodrick was forced to stop. James shifted beside him, but Rodrick halted any impetuous reaction by lifting two fingers from the cart rail.

Rodrick looked beyond him but saw no movement at the door.

"You appear to have misplaced your regiment," Rodrick said.

Arlesford's arm was steady, but a lock of blond hair had fallen across his forehead, which for him constituted nearly the same degree of disorder other men achieved by being dragged behind a horse. "And you misplaced Miss Bonnechoix. Hand her over."

Rodrick rested his forearms upon the cart rail. "I fear the laundry staff is fiercely territorial. I should hate to create an incident."

Arlesford took one step nearer. "You may leave. Give me the girl, and I will tell my officers I reached this passage too late to identify who took her."

Well. Soldiers would have been easier, as they supplied useful targets. An honorable man arriving alone with an offer of discretion suggested conversation, and conversation had the unfortunate habit of becoming personal.

"You intend to lie to the Horse Guards?" Rodrick asked. "Sebastian, I am touched. Another five minutes in my company and you'll be cheating at cards."

"I intend to prevent an old comrade from committing treason."

The smile remained on Rodrick's mouth, but his thumb stopped its idle movement along the cart rail.

"She is Napoleon Bonaparte's daughter. Whatever you think you are doing, you cannot know what will happen to her once you deliver her into French hands. Britain can protect her."

"Oh, yes. I bet the motherland has prepared a distinguished accommodation for a Bonaparte."

Rodrick's gaze dropped briefly to the linen. He could hand her over. James could walk out, Rodrick could disappear into London before midnight, and Napoleon Bonaparte's troublesome daughter would become Britain's problem.

Rodrick looked at Arlesford. "You would truly let me walk?"

"You have my word."

There were men in Europe whose word Rodrick would not have accepted as security for a button. Sebastian Arlesford's could have guaranteed a kingdom.

Rodrick let his shoulders ease and looked down at the cart as though calculating the value of its contents. Then he released the rail.

"Very well," Rodrick said as he walked toward his opponent.

For the first two steps, Arlesford remained ready. On the third, his right shoulder loosened.

The instant Arlesford's eyes shifted toward the cart, Rodrick drove Arlesford's gun hand into the stone wall. He twisted. The weapon tore free and skidded across the floor.