Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(183)

THE METAL WAS warm from being carried in her bosom, and her hands were trembling. She’d dropped the picks twice already.

“It’s dead easy,” Rafe had told her, handing over the two little brass instruments. “Just don’t let yourself be hurried. Locks don’t care for haste, and they’ll defy and obstruct ye if ye try to rush them.”

“Like women,” Mick put in, grinning at her.

Under the O’Higginses’ patient tutelage, she’d succeeded in unlocking the drawer of her own desk with the picks, several times. She’d felt confident then, but it was a lot less easy to feel confident when you were committing burglary—well, reverse burglary, but that was even worse—in a duke’s private library, with said duke and two hundred carousing witnesses no more than a stone’s throw away.

Theoretically, this desk had the same type of lock. It was bigger, though, a solid brass plate with a beveled edge surrounding a keyhole that looked to her as big as a gun barrel at the moment. She took a deep breath, pushed the tension pick into the hole, and, as instructed, turned it to the left.

Then insert the feeler and pull it out gently, listening to the lock. The roar of the ballroom was muffled by the intervening walls, but music thrummed in her head, making it hard to hear. She sank to her knees, pressing her ear almost to the brass of the lock as she pulled out the pick. Nothing.

She’d been holding her breath and the blood was pounding in her ears, making it even harder to hear. She sat back on her heels, making herself breathe. Had she got it wrong?

Again. She put in the tension pick and turned it to the right. As slowly as she could, she slid the feeler in. She thought she felt something, but…She licked her lips and pulled the feeler gently out. Yes! A tiny ripple of sound as the pins dropped.

“Don’t…bloody…rush,” she whispered, and, wiping her hand on her skirt, took up the feeler again.

On the third try, she’d nearly got it—she could feel that there were five pins, and she had three, each making its soft little click—and then the doorknob turned behind her, with a much louder click!

She sprang to her feet with a stifled shriek, startling the footman who’d come in nearly as badly as he’d startled her. He said, “Oh!” and dropped the tray he was carrying, which struck the marble floor with a loud clang and spun like a top, clattering finally to a stop.

Minnie and the footman stared at each other, equally aghast.

“I—I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, and squatted, fumbling with the tray. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“That’s…quite all right,” she said, and paused to swallow. “I—I—felt a bit faint. Thought I’d just…sit…down for a moment. Out of—of the—the crowd.”

Both picks were sticking out of the lock. She took a step backward and put one hand on the desk, to support herself. It wasn’t pretense; her knees had gone to water, and cold sweat was chilling the back of her neck. But the footman couldn’t see the lock, screened as it was by her eau-de-nil skirts.

“Oh. Of course, madam.” With his tray now held to his chest like a shield, the footman was regaining his composure. “May I bring you an ice? A glass of water?”

Jesus Lord, no!

But then she saw the small table at the far side of the hearth, flanked by two armchairs and holding a plate of savories, several glasses, and three or four decanters—one of these plainly filled with water.

“Oh,” she said faintly, and gestured toward the table. “Perhaps…a little water?”

The instant he turned his back, she reached behind her and jerked the picks out of the lock. With trembling knees, she crossed the hearth and sank into one of the chairs, pushing the picks down beside the cushion, under cover of her skirts.

“Would you like me to fetch someone for you, ma’am?” The footman, having solicitously poured her water, was swiftly tidying away the decanters of spirit and what she now saw were used glasses onto his tray. Of course—this was where the duke had been having his meeting.

“No, no. Thank you. I’ll be quite all right.”

The footman glanced at her, then at the plate of savories, and, with a tiny shrug, left it on the table, bowed, and went out, pulling the door gently to behind him.

She sat quite still, forcing herself to breathe evenly. It was all right. Everything would be all right. She could smell the little savories—things wrapped in bacon, bits of anchovy and cheese. Her stomach rumbled; ought she to eat something, to steady her nerves, her hands?

No. She was still safe, but there was no time to waste. She wiped her hands on the arms of the chair, stood up, and marched back to the desk.

Tension pick. Right turn. Feeler to be sure of the pins. Probe. Raise the pins one by one, listening for each tiny metal tink! A pull. No. No, dammit! Try again.

Twice she had to get up, go drink water, and walk clockwise round the room—another of the O’Higginses’ bits of advice—to calm herself before trying again.

But then…a sudden decisive metal choonk and it was done. Her hands were shaking so badly that she could barely get the three parcels out of her pockets, but get them she did. She yanked out the drawer and flung them in, then slammed the drawer with an exclamation of triumph.

“What the devil are you doing?” said a curious voice behind her. She shrieked and whirled round to find the Duke of Pardloe standing in the doorway and, behind him, Harry Quarry and another soldier.