My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(105)

“He’ll go back to his lair—I mean, his library,” Mr. Blackwood cried. “It’s just across the park from here. We should try to catch him before he gets there.” Mr. Blackwood clearly wanted to go after him. But there was still the issue of . . .

“The king,” Mrs. Rochester said. “Is he all right?”

“I don’t want to be a girl,” whined Mr. Mitten/the king. “That wasn’t in the agreement.”

“You don’t have to be a girl,” Bran said kindly. “Although the dresses are pretty.”

“He’s getting away,” hissed Mr. Rochester.

“Go,” Charlotte said. “You and Jane can go after Wellesley. Bran and I will see to the king, and then we’ll catch up.”

Mr. Blackwood gave her a grateful smile. “Come on,” he said to the Rochesters and Jane. “Let’s go catch a duke.”

Then they were gone. Everything seemed dreadfully quiet.

“Time to get this ring off you,” Charlotte said, taking the king’s hand.

But he pulled away. “If you take the ring off, I’ll go back to being dead. I don’t want to be a girl, but I don’t want to be dead again, either.”

There was no choice. Charlotte and Bran had to hold the man down and wrestle the ring off his finger. But that was a problem, too, because the king’s fingers were rather fat, and the ring was a bit tight, and it wouldn’t simply slide off. They tugged and tugged, the king squirming and hollering the entire while, but they couldn’t remove the ring. Their efforts had caused the finger to swell. And Charlotte was getting impatient. Every minute they wasted here was a minute she could be helping Mr. Blackwood grapple with Wellesley.

“Perhaps we could try lathering it with soap?” Bran suggested, but there was not a bar of soap to be found.

“Soak it in cool water?”

That didn’t work.

“Butter?”

He held the king down while Charlotte went to look for some, but she could not find butter.

“I found something else.” She’d been acting logically, when she’d suggested that Mr. Blackwood and Jane go after Wellesley. Jane was gifted with ghosts. Mr. Blackwood had training in fighting and whatnot. Charlotte knew how to direct Bran. But it was (figuratively) killing her, that Mr. Blackwood could be in danger, and she wasn’t there. She was out of time.

She pulled the pair of garden shears from behind her back. “I think this will work.”

Bran’s face went milky. The king started to struggle more than ever, but Bran held him.

“Charlie, be serious. You can’t mean to . . .”

“I do mean to.” And she did. Without another moment’s hesitation she knelt beside the king, positioned the shears, and snipped the finger off. The ring (and the accompanying finger) skittered across the carpet. The king’s eyes rolled up, and he went limp. Charlotte used his coat and a string from a nearby velvet curtain to bind his hand. She’d read something about amputation in a book once. She felt a bit woozy on account of all the blood, but she soldiered on.

“Keep it elevated,” she instructed Bran. “When he wakes, give him the finger.”

“The finger.” Bran was looking a bit green himself.

She handed it to him. Then she turned for the door.

“Charlie,” he said. “Where are you going?”

“To Mr. Blackwood, of course. I have to go to him. Now that I’ve got him back, I’m not going to lose him again.”





THIRTY-FIVE


Jane

The night air hung wet and cold above them, but Jane couldn’t feel anything except her heart racing. Mr. Blackwood was running a few steps ahead of her and a few steps behind her was Bertha Rochester. Mr. Rochester brought up the rear, Helen floated among them, calling out words of encouragement.

They were headed toward Westminster.

“Wouldn’t he want to hide?” Jane had asked Mr. Blackwood.

“I know him. His ego won’t let him believe he’s in any sort of danger.”

Jane’s foot caught on a tree root, and she stumbled but righted herself before she hit the ground. Mr. Blackwood turned to make sure she was okay, but then he tripped and fell flat on his back with an oomph.

Jane scurried to his side and held her hand out. He took it, bounced up, and they were off again, Mr. Blackwood with a slight limp.

Mr. Rochester, due to age, was falling farther behind. “Keep going!” he shouted.

“Mr. Blackwood,” Jane said breathlessly. “If the duke knows that you know that he’ll go to Westminster, aren’t we running straight into a trap?” Jane said.

“But I know something he doesn’t know.”

“What’s that?”

“I grew up in this place. I know of a secret tunnel!”

They continued the run through Saint James’s Park, which Mr. Blackwood said was a shortcut to Westminster. When the looming spires appeared in the night sky, Mr. Blackwood took a left toward the river. Jane followed without question, mostly because she was too winded to form more words. Mr. Blackwood turned right at the river and then darted through some trees and finally came to the base of a wall, where there was an iron grate.

“Here it is,” Mr. Blackwood said.