Authors: Shirl Henke
“I just might,” Michael said. “My men have been watching the comings and goings of the Russians for some months. Besides living at the Metropole, this group has a small, private hunting lodge in the north of Essex, not far from the coast.”
“A perfect place for making good their escape by sea after they assassinate Count Hayashi,” Hambleton said.
Josh saw a dim ray of hope. “You ever hear any talk about it?” he asked Hodgins.
“N-no, but it might be,” he said lamely, thinking there might be a dim hope of living out the day if the wild American raced off in search of the Edgewater woman.
“How far to this place?” Josh asked Michael.
“With fast horses we can make it in four to five hours.”
“Zarenko has Sabrina. He'll remember her from the hotel. We don't have four hours,” Josh said harshly. “How isolated is this place? Any roads leading to it?”
“Yes, it's on a decent thoroughfare to Colchester.”
“Good. We'll take the Mercedes.”
The earl raised his eyebrows. “I scarcely believe it is as reliable as my best horses.”
“Can any of them run fifty miles an hour for over two hours?”
“Good God, can your vehicle?” his uncle asked, but Josh was already heading to the door.
“I have to load extra cans of fuel in the trunk and get on the road. Will you guide me, Michael?”
“With Zarenko at trail's end, need you even ask?” Jamison replied coolly.
“I shall deal with our lovelorn fool here,” Hambleton said, shoving Hodgins into a chair, where he collapsed in a rumpled heap, trembling as he realized all his dreams of Paris and Tasha were over.
“What of me?” Edmund asked as he trailed along after Josh and Michael.
“No time, Edmund,” Josh said dismissively as his long legs carried him out the kitchen door toward the mews where he garaged his automobile.
“B-but it's all my fault that this happened to my cousin. I must make amends. I'm coming along,” he huffed, struggling to keep up with them.
Without breaking stride, Josh said, “Right as rain about this bein' your fault. I reckon we could use another man when it comes to handling the petroleum.”
Edmund's face brightened as Josh entered the mews and yanked a heavy covering off several large metal drums stored in a stall beside the gleaming automobile.
“Start loading while I crank her up,” he instructed his helpers.
Dubiously, Jamison and Whistledown set to work.
* * * *
“Hurry up or I shall simply shoot you and say you tried to escape,” Natasha said as she observed Sabrina answering an urgent call of nature in the woods surrounding the shooting lodge where they'd imprisoned her last night.
Sabrina took her time. “You cannot kill me without risking your brother's wrath. Remember that I'm a valuable hostage,” she replied calmly, trying to believe it herself, all the while her mind frantically turned over ways to escape and warn Josh and the earl about what was going to happen that very afternoon.
“Nicki is a fool to think the viscount would give a fig for an insignificant servant such as you.”
Sabrina straightened up, feeling more confident now that she was not subjected to the humiliation of having this spiteful woman watch her squatting in a patch of weeds. She was not as tall as the ballerina, nor as strong. She needed some weapon as an equalizer. Zarenko and Valerian had left her and Natasha with only two brutish guards who spoke nothing but Russian. The men seemed content to remain in the lodge, drinking vodka and throwing dice. Natasha had taken over the role as her jailer and relished it.
La Samsonov had been spurned by Josh and was obviously itching to take revenge on the woman she viewed as her rival, even if she would never admit it. Sabrina thought there had to be a way to overpower her and escape. Thus far nothing had occurred to her, but she knew her best opportunity would be when they were alone like this. As they made their way back to the lodge, she scanned the surrounding woods for weapons and hiding places.
“Don't dawdle in the hot sun. It will ruin your wonderful English complexion,” Natasha said snidely, shoving Sabrina toward the steps.
That was when Sabrina saw it off to the side of the weed-infested path, half hidden in the shadow of the sagging porch. The Russians servants were apparently allowed to remain indoors and drink rather than see to the upkeep of the place. But considering that the entire lot of them would shortly be leaving England, that was scarcely surprising. Her find was a rusty hunting knife with a broken blade. Certainly not her first choice for self-defense, but it would have to do. The thought of stabbing the jagged edge into human flesh made the bile rise in her throat.
Would you rather die?
The sadistic Russian woman would delight in killing her. And Sabrina intuited that Natasha Samsonov would not be at all merciful about it.
At five feet two inches in height, weighing barely a hundred and three pounds—and seven of that hair, as her mother always said—Sabrina knew she could never match the strength of a woman half a head taller and a good twenty pounds heavier. Besides, while Sabrina spent her days pouring tea and instructing debutantes, the ballerina honed powerful muscles in the rigorous exercises of the dance.
It was now or never. Sabrina deliberately stumbled when she reached the first step, toppling sideways toward the place where the blade lay hidden. As Natasha cursed and reached down to grab a fistful of hair to drag her up the steps, Sabrina slipped the blade in the folds of her skirt.
Somehow she would have to conceal it on her person before her next “call of nature.”
Chapter Twenty
“I say, Josh, that rising needle? Is it perchance a temperature gauge?” Michael Jamison asked warily, nodding toward the dash panel of the speeding Mercedes.
“Yup,” Josh murmured. Even though he'd checked the radiator and knew it still held plenty of water, the heat was climbing way too high. Small wonder. In the past hour and a half they'd traveled at breakneck speeds.
Edmund leaned forward from the back seat and yelled over the noise of the engine, “Crikey, does that mean we can go even faster?” He sounded delighted at the prospect as he gazed curiously at the various knobs and gauges on the complex piece of machinery.
Michael just sat stoically, his hands braced against the dash panel as the wind whipped his straight black hair about his face. Oddly enough, the coolly imperturbable spy was more frightened than the timid Edmund by hurtling along at speeds nearing fifty miles an hour.
Then again,
Josh thought,
Eddy's such a fool kid, if he fell down, he couldn't hit the ground.
“No, we can't go faster. As it is, we've been pushing too hard without giving the cooling system time to rest,” he explained in terms he hoped both men could understand. And a tone that would not unduly upset poor Michael.
“Does that mean the whole bloody thing could explode?” Jamison asked sharply.
“Unfortunately, yes, but I think we'll make it,” Josh replied with what he hoped was confidence...and accuracy.
They had followed the main roads out of the city heading northeast, with Michael giving directions for turns and checking landmarks as they progressed. By the time they had to make the first stop to refill the fuel tank, the engine was already so hot that the cap to the cooling system's water supply could not be removed without special tools and the risk of scalding anyone who performed the task. Josh figured his beautiful automobile would soon be a melted-down piece of scrap metal. If his beautiful woman was safe, it would not matter.
Sabrina. He could not lose her this way. He could not bear the thought of losing her in any possible way. No woman had ever seized hold of his heart as she had. Now he recognized it and knew he never wanted to live without her again. If only he had the chance to tell her that.
“How much farther?” he asked Jamison, who was squinting at the roadside searching for landmarks.
“If you'd slow this bloody machine down, I might be able to see something,” Michael snarled. When Josh removed his foot from the gas pedal, Jamison leaned out the side and peered at a tall stand of oaks clustered around a turn-off. “I believe that's it,” he said.
Josh emitted an oath that drew a sharp intake of breath from Edmund, who still leaned forward by his shoulder. “Unpaved roads. The Mercedes isn't going to cotton to that,” Josh said as he turned the wheel sharply. The tires hit the loose gravel, skidding in a half circle before he regained control of the wheel. Edmund was pitched headfirst against Michael, who cursed and yelled at him to stay the hell in the back seat where he belonged.
Jamison had not wanted the boy along, and Josh had to concede he had a point. Whistledown was purely a magnet for trouble, but he did provide another pair of hands for hefting the petroleum keg and holding the funnel to the fuel-tank opening, always a tricky maneuver. Also, they might be able to use him as a decoy to lure the Russians into an ambush in the woods. Until he saw the lay of the land, Josh had formulated only the loosest sort of plan with Michael. But there was one thing on which they agreed—no way would either man turn Edmund Whistledown loose with a gun.
The bumps and ruts carved by rains and carriage traffic over the years, perhaps centuries for all Josh knew, had made the narrow trail nearly impassable in an automobile. He downshifted but still went as fast as he dared. The vehicle endured horrible jarring as the wheels bounced from rut to rut, struggling for purchase on the dusty, rocky ground.
“Damnation, that was a cow you almost hit! Slow this bloody thing down.” Michael's voice had lost any semblance of British stiff upper lip. Indeed, he sounded on the verge of panic.
Edmund, on the other hand, was in his glory. “Have no fear, sir. Lord Wesley is at home racing across the range, weaving in and out of herds of cows, swerving around prairie hogs—”
“That's prairie dogs, you idiot,” Jamison snapped. “Now shut up!”
“Please, sir. There's no need for rudeness. In any case, we have slowed drastically. Crikey, a horse would be much faster than this,” Edmund ventured, disappointed now that the thrill of speed was over.
“Find me a horse and I'll ride it hell bent for leather,” Josh said through gritted teeth, fighting to hold on to the wheel and keep the Mercedes on the road while he watched the heat gauge climb into what he knew was a danger zone.
Edmund sighed. “We wouldn't have got this far nearly so fast on horseback, I'll concede.”
“How much farther to their hidey-hole?” Josh asked Michael.
“I'd say about four or five miles, over the rise,” he replied, his calm returning in direct proportion to their decline in speed.
“Good,” Josh said, braking to a halt.
“What are you stopping for?” both men asked.
Edmund looked at the viscount as if he'd taken leave of his senses when Josh jumped out of the car and withdrew his Colt from its holster. “I say, you aren’t going to shoot the poor vehicle as if it were a broken-legged nag at the Downs!” he exclaimed, horrified.
Michael had an inkling about what the viscount intended to do. “I’d relish putting a bullet hole in this infernal contraption.”
Josh would have been amused if the circumstances had not been so grim. “Much as I’d like to allow you the honors, you wouldn’t know where to put the slug. The engine's going to blow if I don't relieve the pressure on the radiator,” Josh explained to both men as he took careful aim at the very top of the grille so as to avoid the engine. He fired a single shot. Whistledown clapped his hands over his ringing ears as Josh continued, “Radiator’s kind of like a boiler on a locomotive or steamboat. That bullet hole should act as a steam vent...until the engine runs dry. At least we're out of earshot of the Russians.”
“But not me,” Edmund said, rubbing his ears. He positively hated the noise firearms made.