Exile for Dreamers (26 page)

When he said the word “invasion,” Daneska's gaze shot to him. Suddenly alert.
Alarmed.
An instant later she whipped her attention back to me. “You,” she uttered around the gag.

I lifted my chin, pleased that even though her assumption wasn't true, I had partially undone her arrogance.

“We brought her here for questioning.” Captain Grey set his hat on the entry table. “I thought it would be best. With her being a young lady, the government might be reluctant to question her as thoroughly as the situation warrants. I'll take her on to London in a day or two. But first, we thought it best if you were to … er…”

“House her,” Lord Wyatt offered.

“Yes, of course.” Miss Stranje glanced at Daneska.

“Oh, yes.” I crossed my arms. “I suppose we have a moldy dungeon below stairs that ought to do for her. She won't mind the rats.”

Daneska laughed. She couldn't help herself. She thinks everything is so blasted amusing.

“Tess!” Miss Stranje sounded as if she was scolding me.

Me?

When
there
stood the criminal.
There! Scold
her.

“Ungraciousness does not become you, Miss Aubreyson. Lady Daneska is a guest here at Stranje House. Royalty. As such, we will treat her with as much hospitality as she did Lord Wyatt in Calais.”

A flash of panic washed over Daneska's impenetrable mask. Rightly so, for she had starved and tortured him. If we had not rescued him when we did he would be dead.

“A dungeon is too good for her.” I brooded. “She can rot in her own excrement for all I care.”

For some reason, that cheered Daneska up. The words were a bit muffled from beneath her gag, but I knew exactly what she'd said, “Ah, Tessie,
ma chère.
You still care.”

Miss Stranje was not impressed with either of us. “Greaves, if you will please locate our irons. I believe you will find an extra set in the discipline chamber. And prepare the small guest room in the chambers below stairs.”

That got Daneska's attention. Not alarm, but indignation twisted her features. She deserved better than the dungeons.

I smiled.

At the top of the stairs, a very sleepy Georgie emerged from the dormitorium, rubbing her eyes. “Who's here? I thought I heard…”

Lord Wyatt saw her on the landing and his face brightened, so much I thought for a moment our candles must have flared.

“Sebastian!” Georgie flew down the stairs and, completely ignoring propriety, threw her arms around his neck.

Miss Stranje ought to have scolded her. And when they kissed, she ought to have demanded a marriage proposal out of him. Instead, she looked on with a melancholy so full of soft sorrow that my own chest began to ache. Her gaze drifted to Captain Grey and immediately fluttered to the floor.

“A-hem.” The captain cleared his throat.

Lord Wyatt and Georgie remembered themselves and pulled apart. Georgie stood back, shyly studying her naked toes. “Welcome home, Lord Wyatt, Captain Grey.” Then she took stock of our other guest. “And Lady Daneska.” She bobbed a curtsey and glanced pointedly at the ropes binding Daneska's wrists. “Lovely of you to call. I don't believe I have ever seen you in better looks.”

If I had said that, Daneska would've laughed at my attempt to humble her. But because it had come from Georgie, her eyes narrowed viciously. She'd disliked Georgie from the start. But now, after having been robbed by her in Calais of two coveted prizes, the invisible ink formula and Lord Wyatt, she appeared to have formed a rather venomous hatred of our newest student.

Miss Stranje ordered the two of us upstairs to dress appropriately. “Captain Grey and Lord Wyatt have been traveling all night. I'm certain a rest is in order.”

She took a firm hold of our prisoner's arm. “Come along, Lady Daneska. You may enjoy the young ladies' company after they have breakfasted.”

 

Nineteen

PLOTTING

Daneska was here.
Here.
Everything had changed.

Long before dawn I went for my run, far too early for Georgie to come with me. Wind blew up from the sea, bringing a salty chill to the air as I traversed the cliff tops. Wispy silver clouds skirted through the dark sky, racing me. The tide was high, and every time the surf crashed against the rocks, I would burst forward as if some invisible hand pushed me faster and faster.

I loved the salt air whipping against my face and the feeling that nothing else mattered but running. The simple act of flinging one foot in front of the other and speeding past stones and cliffs and trees, all the things that had stood far longer than I had lived—that simple act washed away the turmoil in my mind in a way that a thousand baths could not.

I rounded the east side of the house and loped in long-legged strides toward the pasture and the woods, where … I'd killed a man.

My feet slowed as I neared the spot where I'd thrown my knife. I saw his face. A phantom of the man I'd killed. Saw him falling. Not in a dream. Or a vision. A memory. My feet stilled completely. I saw it all again.

The first death by my hand.

I crouched, shivering, and hushed Phobos and Tromos, who wanted to keep running. I drew them close for warmth and dropped to my knees. Tromos whimpered and laid her wet nose over my shoulder.

She remembered, too.

Soon, very soon, I would have to add one more killing to my account. Would I be able to do it? Cold prickles skittered up my arms. I shuddered and looked away, burying my face in Tromos's dark fur. I should not have stopped here. I should've kept running.

I sprang up and took off at a furious pace, trying to outrun those thoughts. After exhausting myself in a ragged race around the sheep pasture, I walked back toward Stranje House. When I arrived at the gap between the two properties, I slowed down, watching the guards MacDougal had hired taking their patrols around Ravencross Manor. That ought to discourage his brother. Except I knew better. Ghost was clever and cunning . Even worse, the man was patient. He would bide his time and strike when least expected. As leader of the Iron Crown, Ghost was as relentless as Napoleon himself.

I wondered if Gabriel might try to ride out that morning, which would leave him vulnerable. Naturally, I waited. The sun peeked over the horizon and shot pink and orange streaks across the sky, and there was still no sign of him, no movement about his house and no big brown horse in the distance. So I gave up. His shoulder must not be healed well enough for riding.

Maybe tomorrow.

I dawdled walking back to the house, sighing and kicking stones along the way. Georgie sat on the garden step, waiting. I knew it was Sebastian she was waiting for, not me. “Lord Wyatt won't be along until much later.”

“I know.” She sighed. “It's just that I can't bear it, knowing he's only a mile or two away, when I—”

“Yes, yes, I know. You've missed him fiercely these last weeks. Come along.” I pulled her to her feet. “Sitting here won't make the time go any faster.”

“As if you weren't doing the same thing. I saw you waiting near the place where Lord Ravencross usually rides.” Her voice had a chastising scrape to it. “You shouldn't have turned him away yesterday. I would never send Sebastian away without seeing him.”

She didn't understand. How could she? I plucked a yellowing leaf from a nearby bush and studied the pattern of veins on the underside. “It's different for you. You have an understanding with Lord Wyatt, don't you?”

She turned the color of the pink clouds in the dawning sky. “Of sorts. The life of a spy is not—” She stopped and covered her mouth briefly. “
Excuse me
. I meant to say that the life of
a man in diplomatic service
is not conducive to having a wife and children.”

“But at least you have the possibility of a future.”

“Perhaps.” Georgie kicked at a pebble. “But only if this wretched war with Napoleon would ever end. Even then, there are no guarantees. His first allegiance is to the crown.”

“The war can't last forever,” I said, and instantly regretted how feeble that statement sounded. I wished I could've reassured her with more conviction, so I attempted a lighter tone. “Imagine your mother's delight at having you wed to a viscount.” Her mother was keenly interested in advancing herself socially. If Georgie made an advantageous marriage she might finally win her mother's approval.

She chuckled. “I daresay she would swoon at the idea. But, I dare not look that far down the road. The future is too uncertain. That's why I intend to seize every possible moment with Sebastian.”

I said nothing to that. It was different between her and Lord Wyatt. I envied her. She had a future. It might not be a perfect one, but at least they had the hope of one.

“Come.” I tugged her up the stairs. “Let's find out how Lady Daneska is faring as our prisoner.”

We roamed the house in search of Miss Stranje. Our elusive headmistress was nowhere to be found. Odd, how she always shows up at the most inopportune moments, and yet when one wants something, she seems to vanish entirely.

Breakfast arrived at the same hour it always did, but for me it felt as if time had ticked by slower than an old woman's cane. Georgie and I were the first ones seated. The other girls filed in shortly after, as did Mr. Sinclair, who seemed particularly buoyant at that hour of the morning. At exactly nine o'clock, Miss Stranje took her seat at the head of the table.

I frothed at the bit, waiting to find out how Miss Stranje planned to extract the information from Daneska. Except we couldn't speak of it, not yet, not with the servants and our American guest listening. So we ate in strained silence.

I contemplated various methods of interrogation in my head. Confining Daneska with only bread and water would never work. She was made of sterner stuff. I stabbed a potato drenched in rosemary and butter.

How?
How could we get her to talk?

Mercifully, Mr. Sinclair broke through the tension and diverted us with his enthusiastic plans for building the small prototype of his warship engine. “We'll need to find something to serve as the piston rod. But we've nearly finished the steam cylinder. Now if I can fabricate a sturdy crank out of something…” He twirled his fork in his fingers while he was thinking. Judging by the look on Jane's face, I thought she might grab it straight out of his hands. But he set it down with a plunk and brightened. “Perhaps I might have one or two of your pokers?”

Miss Stranje followed his covetous gaze to the fireplace tools stored on the hearth. “You may, if that is what is necessary.”

“I noticed you've other sets on most of your hearths.”

“Yes.” She nodded, drawing back. “But do try and leave one or two behind so that we have something with which to tend our fires.”

“Yes, miss, certainly. And of course I shall need to visit a wheelwright to have a small flywheel constructed.”

Her face puckered momentarily. “I do not think that wise, Mr. Sinclair—”

“Alexander.”

“Very well,
Alexander.
A journey to the village puts you in too much danger. If you will make a drawing and a list of the exact dimensions, I shall send Philip to the wheelwright. It will attract far less attention if the order comes from one of us rather than a stranger.”

“Excellent! In that case, we'll be whistling right along.” He grabbed up his fork as if it were a shovel. “I should also like to try out Miss Barrington's and Miss Fitzwilliam's contributions to my torpedo.” He smiled broadly at Georgie. “Installing Congreve's compression trigger was pure genius. It will be sensitive enough to explode upon impact but not so sensitive that it blows up while we're loading it.”

Jane gaped at him. “Egad, I should certainly hope not.”

He glossed over her concerns with a cheery wave of his hand. “Don't fret. It's simply a matter of adjusting the spring pressure correctly.” Jane did not look mollified. He aimed his next request at me. “Do you think Lord Ravencross might lend us his assistance in building today?”

My only answer was a shrug.

“No matter.” Sinclair scooped up another helping of eggs and sausage. “I'll send a note requesting his help. I'm certain he'll oblige us. Then, if we are industrious and finish construction on the prototype tomorrow or the next day, I would like to attempt a test shot.”

“A test shot?” Miss Stranje set her spoon down with a sudden and uncustomary clink. “What,
exactly,
do you propose to blow up?”

“That's the question, isn't it? To test the weapon properly, we'll need to aim at something some distance from the shore—”

Our headmistress snapped a piece of toast in half and dropped both halves on her plate. “Wouldn't it suffice to set up a wooden target out in the north pasture? There are trees there to hide the—”

“The blast. No. Wouldn't work.” He shook his head, set down his fork, and blotted his mouth with the table linen. “A dry inland test proves nothing. We must see how it performs in water.”

Sera spread marmalade on a muffin and mumbled, “Let us hope Mr. Chadwick is not visiting in the vicinity on the day of your test.”

“Oh, yes, I see the problem. Might alarm the neighbors.” He drummed his fingers briefly on the tablecloth and drank the last of his pear juice. “I have it.” He set down the goblet with a plunk and grinned. “If we test it at night, it's bound to make for some picturesque fireworks. If anyone asks, we could simply say we're celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?” Jane looked at him as if he was completely balmy.

“I don't know.
Anything.
” Quite jauntily, he added, “My birthday, for example.”

“Is it your birthday?” she asked.