Gilded Cage (Dark Gifts #1)(53)



How would it have been if fate had delivered her one of the other Jardine sons: Jenner, or Silyen? Jenner would have been out of the question, she supposed. If he’d been the eldest, Whittam would have disinherited him. And Silyen? Well . . . maybe there were worse things than Gavar’s short temper.

And perhaps the strategies she learned for dealing with him would come in useful when they had babies.

‘But I understand from your father’ – she looked over at Whittam to enlist his support, and he gave a confirmatory nod – ‘that the escape can be explained entirely by Millmoor’s own lax security protocols.’

She counted off their failings on her fingers, wincing at the garish turquoise polish on each nail. Dina had returned from Paris in the small hours, spilling noisily through the door with bags of designer nonsense and exorbitantly priced cosmetics. She had insisted on giving her sister a manicure after breakfast, even though there were slaves for that sort of thing – ‘Because politicians can be pretty, too!’ There was another fortunate accident of birth, Bouda supposed. Just imagine if DiDi had been the Matravers heir.

‘The perpetrators wore valid identity bands. And because they posed as Administration Security, the fact that they were unknown to the prison guards didn’t raise suspicion.’ She folded down two fingers, counting. ‘Your father has just received confirmation that they compromised the CCTV cameras, too. They were also monitoring Security’s communications channels, which is how they knew you were coming.

‘And above all, they held their nerve. If Walcott’s escape weren’t so exasperating, I’d applaud their brazenness. Walking out with the prisoner, while telling the imbeciles on duty that you were the breakout team.’ She folded down the last finger. ‘All in all, more than enough reasons to explain how they extracted the prisoner from under the noses of such incompetents.’

Gavar held his ground, looming over her where she sat on the sofa. She wasn’t intimidated. They were in the snug sitting room of Daddy’s little Mayfair bolt-hole. Everything here was as cosily over-upholstered as Daddy himself, and Bouda felt secure. This was home territory.

‘It was more than that,’ Gavar insisted. ‘I daresay slavetown Security aren’t recruited for their intelligence, but for those guards to have fallen for such a simple trick? And me? I walked straight past them. Didn’t spare them a glance.’

And that, thought Bouda, was the simplest thing of all in this whole farcical business. Gavar Jardine misses a breakout taking place right under his nose. And to cover his own idiocy, he starts seeing Skill at work. In a slavetown, no less. Bouda had seen how agitated Gavar was at the thought of using special measures on the prisoner. He’d probably been drinking non-stop from the moment his car left London. Everyone knew about the decanters that nestled in the Jardine Bentley’s back seat.

‘It’s an interesting hypothesis,’ said Lord Whittam, who’d been leaning against the mantelpiece, observing the exchange. ‘But not a necessary one. The stolen vehicle was found abandoned just inside the Peak District, half submerged in a quarry. It’s being recovered now, though it doesn’t seem likely we’ll get much from it. That isn’t the sort of stratagem a Skilled person would resort to.’

‘Do we know who was driving the vehicle?’ she asked Whittam. ‘The fugitive himself, or an accomplice?’

‘Security ran a perimeter chip-check about five minutes after the breakout was discovered. That showed that all microchipped individuals not inside the boundary were absent with authorization, except for the prisoner Walcott. The vehicle passed through several internal checkpoints. The guards at each report that the ID was in order and the driver was a Caucasian female, though their descriptions of her are unhelpfully vague.’

‘Female and unchipped?’ said Bouda. ‘His wife, is she on the outside? Free?’

‘Dead,’ said Whittam impassively. ‘Breast cancer three years ago. Seems to have been what prompted Walcott to start his days.’

‘I’m telling you’ – Gavar was clenching his fists – ‘it was Skill.’

Bouda felt certain that the only Skill that had been used in Millmoor last night was Gavar’s own. Infuriated at being trapped inside the detention centre by a guard who thought Gavar himself was Walcott’s rescuer, he had simply blasted his way out. The max wing of the prison had been reduced to rubble and several individuals inside were seriously injured. It was all rather excessive – albeit a well-timed reminder to Millmoor’s seditionists of the power they sought to defy.

He had then pursued someone through the streets with his beloved revolver, apparently in the belief it was either Walcott or his fleeing accomplice. Gavar Jardine the action hero. She smiled to herself. He was such a little boy.

But she didn’t want Gavar throwing all his toys out of the pram at this early stage. She’d be spending the next two days with the Jardine father and son, after all. Maybe it was time to use a softer tone.

‘What happened to the person you shot at? Whatever tipped you off, Skill, intuition, or a sharp pair of ears’ – she sent Gavar her most mollifying smile, though he seemed sadly immune – ‘your instincts about the rescue attempt were correct.’

‘I didn’t shoot at him,’ said Gavar. ‘I hit him. I heard him yell out.’

Gavar was touchy about his marksmanship. Had been ever since word had got out about the hunting accident – the one that killed the slavegirl mother of his child. Bouda hadn’t found it in her heart to be sorry about that particular incident.

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