Dangerous Games. Charlotte MedeЧитать онлайн книгу.
shook her head, confused. “You mean the exiled Maharaja of the Punjab, Duleep Singh? Whatever does he have to do with this? I should think the Chartists are more likely involved. There has been much civil unrest and rioting in London these past few months.”
Bellamy snorted derisively. “And what you probably don’t know is that Singh is in dispute with our government after his attempts to have his annual salary raised and to regain possession of the Koh-I-Noor, both of which were refused by the India Office.”
Scarcely the reassurance she was looking for. “Why would they bring their troubles to London, of all places? This type of action will do their cause not a whit of good.” She vaguely remembered a recent discussion with Seabourne around the matter.
Bellamy released her aching shoulder, his eyes darting to the bottom of the stairs. “This is hardly the time for discussion. Remain here,” he said, and his tone rang with a possessiveness that was simultaneously unfamiliar and irritating to her. “I will make my way to the first-floor entrance and see precisely what’s transpiring. With some good fortune, the constabulary will be here and apprehend the rioters.”
Before she could reply, he’d disappeared down the stairs, his bulk melting into the throng. She cast a quick glance at the ring on her finger, the intertwined serpents coiled against her skin, and decided instantly that she would not wait for her betrothed to return and rescue her.
Betrothed. She didn’t know which was worse. A future with Bellamy as her husband or being trapped in a burning building. She gathered up her skirts, convinced her ridiculous misgivings would prove her undoing.
She turned back toward the theater box, her knowledge of buildings and their structure telling her that there must be another stairwell where actors and stage workers could come and go unseen—used for far less grand purposes than parading about on opening nights. Already she imagined palls of smoke, an acrid burning in the back of her throat. Refusing to panic, she looked first to her right before picking up her skirts and breaking into a run to the end of the hall. If she found an alternate stairwell, she would return, signal the rest…the rioters could not possibly have secured all the doors to the theater.
Unease crawled over her. She was moving away from the crowd, in a direction opposite to everyone else. At the end of the corridor, more of a cutout than a proper door, she saw the faint outline—a small affair—with a low lintel and scuffed panels that could use a coat of paint. Hesitating for the briefest moment, she pushed her weight against the opening and moved from the light into the darkness.
Silence. The rising hum of terror receded behind her replaced by the beating of her heart as her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. Sure enough, a narrow flight of stairs led to a flagstoned landing. There would be a portal—there had to be. Stairs had to connect to something and somewhere, hopefully to the outside.
Halfway down the flight, a low whine of hinges moving reached her ears, another door opening below her. Before she could swallow her elation, a figure stepped from behind the entrance and into the faint radiance cast by the moonlight. He was short and strapping, and he pulled the door shut behind him to stand motionless, letting his own eyes adjust to the darkness.
Lilly froze, hoping the shadows would envelope her. The man looked up and pinned her with a gaze that communicated the worst of intentions. His stocky body blocked the narrow passageway and she took a step backward, up one stair. Hampered by her long skirts and stiff hoops, she couldn’t risk turning her back, so she took one more.
A grim dance that seemed to take forever stretched time to the breaking point. He followed, swallowing two steps at a time until she could feel his breath, stale and menacing, on her face.
She had no choice. Jamming her reticule with its metal frame and gold and brass beads at his face, she hurled her body in his direction and down the stairs toward the door. She inhaled a mouthful of rancid sweat and, nauseated, edged her way past the bulky figure, the last of the stairs just a step away. Using her fists to rain blows on the man, she felt him grab a handful of her hair and twist.
She lashed at him with her feet, shoving her reticule at his throat, at his eyes. He managed to block her blows, but let go of her hair to do it. Breathing hard with defiance and fear, she threw herself down the last two stairs and out the door.
Cold air. A moonlit alley. And no rioters crowding her escape. If she could get past the stone wall to the front entrance of the theater, to the constabulary…away from her attacker. Looking up, all she saw was a night sky glittering with stars and not a wisp of smoke billowing from the building.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her heart was racing and her limbs tingled, almost entirely numb. If she could tear off her hoops beneath her wide skirts, she could run to the front entrance and summon help. But there was no opportunity to act on her next thought. Her head shattered, her vision disintegrating into shards of light. A hard shove between the shoulder blades and slowly she sank to her knees, skirts billowing around her. She closed her eyes, gorge rising against the blows she knew were coming.
But they never came. She remained kneeling for what seemed an eternity. At least the beautiful theater, the John Nash masterpiece, would not burn to the ground. At least the hundreds of theatergoers would not perish. At least death would come quickly when it did. Those were her last hopes.
When she opened her eyes, her assailant was crouched opposite her, focused on the moonlit pathway and at the man coming toward them.
His strides were that of a hunter, and a knife glinted in his hand.
Lilly choked back a rising hysteria, on her knees with the world swimming before her. Unable to focus, she was aware of her assailant panting heavily beside her. And then like a creature in the wild, he crouched even lower before jumping up and running to the back of the alley, away from the theater. He scrambled up the stone wall and vanished.
St. Martin lengthened his strides toward her, closing the distance between them. Her body refused to move, but head throbbing, she allowed him to pull her to her feet where she stood swaying, mesmerized by the knife in his hand and the hard glitter of stars overhead.
He folded it with frighteningly elegant movements and put it in the side of his boot. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his eyes glancing over her efficiently.
She backed away from him. Sickened, the blow to her head still ringing in her ears, she pointed feebly to the theater behind her. “We must alert the constabulary,” she said as forcefully as she could. “The people in the theater still…”
“It’s been taken care of. The rioters apprehended and the fire was a small one and already extinguished.”
She stared at him in disbelief, still unsteady on her feet. Her neck hurt, but she managed to take in the high wall behind her, looking for her attacker. Her thoughts came in wild disorder. “Who was that man? Was he one of the rioters? Really didn’t get a good look at him, although what does it matter now?” Her lips felt dry as sand. “And why are you here?” She didn’t care whether the tumble of words made any sense.
St. Martin didn’t answer and instead took her wrist. “I think I’d better see you home. You’ve had a shock.”
Her lace gloves were torn, the diamond and ruby snake ring on her finger an incongruous shock to her system. Pulling back suddenly, trying to free herself from his curiously strong but gentle grasp, she shook her head. “Bellamy. My betrothed. I must find him.”
He let go of her wrist, glancing at the ring on her finger before taking her arm. It was an impersonal gesture, a means of guiding her, yet she was aware of his touch immediately, intensely. Everything about the man set her on edge, magnifying her responses.
“I may have had a blow to my head, but I do remember our last encounter and I don’t think I shall invite you to see me home.” She pulled her reticule close to her body, the gold and brass beads loosened from their moorings. The bottom two flounces on her wide skirts were torn and caught on the low heels of her evening shoes.
“I’m sure your betrothed is well.” He urged her forward toward the street. “And I suppose