What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(91)

“It has also been noticed that the prince is gone,” Vladimir continued. “Her parents are worried that they are together.”

Harry’s lips pressed into a flat, firm line. His chest burned at the insinuation, but this was not the time for jealousy.

“They wish to keep this quiet. They are with the ambassador right now.”

“They are with him? Has he—”

“He is playing the concerned host to perfection.” Vladimir spit on the floor. “I have never trusted him.”

Harry stared down at the wet spot on the floor with some surprise. It was the largest show of emotion he had seen him display. When he looked back up, it was clear that Vladimir had noticed his curiosity.

The huge Russian looked at him with steely eyes. “I especially detest men who prey on women.”

There was a world of history behind that remark, but Harry knew better than to ask. He nodded once—a show of respect—and then asked, “What now?”

“It is known where the prince is. That is where they will deliver a note. He has strict instructions not to do anything, and I think he is wise enough to do as I say.”

Harry hoped this was true. He thought it was, but then again, Prince Alexei had been drinking.

“While he waits, we search.”

“How big is this bloody mausoleum?”

Vladimir shook his head. “I do not precisely know. More than forty rooms, to be sure. Perhaps more. But if I were to hold someone, I would take her to the north wing.”

“What is in the north wing?”

“It is more remote. And the rooms are smaller.”

“But wouldn’t he think that that would be the first place we’d look?”

Vladimir moved to the door. “He would not know anyone is looking. He thinks me a stupid servant.” He looked over at Harry with a heavy-lidded stare. “And he knows nothing of you.” He placed his hand on the knob. “Are you ready?”

Harry’s fingers tightened on his gun. “Lead the way.”



It took nearly half an hour, and Olivia was quite sure her shoulders were both falling out of their sockets, but finally her fingers slipped under a piece of the knot and she was able to get it partially undone. She paused, listening attentively—were those footsteps she’d heard?

She stretched out straight, assuming the same position she’d held when her captor had left.

But no, nothing. There was no unclicking of locks, no opening of the door. She squirmed herself back around until she could feel the knot at the back of her ankles again. It was definitely smaller, but she still had work. Lots of it. She couldn’t be certain, but it felt like a double square. Well, one and a half, now. But if she could get the next section undone, she’d be…

She’d still be stuck.

She let out a long sigh, deflating in body and spirit. If it had taken her that long just to do one small part of the knot…

No, she berated herself. She had to keep going. If she could get the next two bits undone, then the rest ought to slip open with a little squirming on her part.

She could do this. She could.

She grit her teeth and got back to work. Maybe this one would go faster now that she knew what she was doing. She knew how to move her fingers, wedging one in the crease and then wiggling back and forth, back and forth, trying to loosen the knot.

Or maybe it would go faster because her shoulders had gone numb. Surely the lack of pain would be to her benefit.

She wedged…and wiggled…and wedged…and wiggled…and arched her back…and stretched…and rolled…and rolled back…

And lost her balance.

She landed on the floor with a loud thump. A really loud thump. She winced, praying that the change in the bindings around her ankles wasn’t noticeable as she listened for the clicks of the locks.

But there was nothing.

Could he not have heard her? It seemed impossible. Olivia had never been graceful; tie both her hands and her feet and she was a complete gawk. Needless to say, she had not landed quietly.

Maybe no one was out there. She had assumed that her captor was sitting in a chair outside her door, but truthfully, she had no idea why she thought that. He certainly couldn’t have thought she might escape, and Olivia was fairly certain that this section of the building was deserted. The only footsteps she’d heard had been immediately followed by the appearance of the gray-haired man.

She waited at her spot on the floor by the bed for another minute, just in case anyone came in, then shoved herself across the wood to the door, where she could peer underneath. There was a sliver of space there, no more than three-quarters of an inch, and she couldn’t see much—the hall was only the slightest bit better lit than her room. But she thought she might see shadows, if there were any.

And she didn’t think there were.

So she wasn’t guarded. This had to be a useful bit of information, although given her currently bound state, she wasn’t certain how. And she really wasn’t certain how she might maneuver herself back onto the bed. She could try to prop herself up against one of the legs, but the table with the teapot was still blocking the one by the head of the bed, and—

The teapot!

A surge of excitement and strength burst through her, and she literally flipped herself over in her haste to get back to the table. From there it was a scoot, scoot, shove, and—