Texas Viscount (39 page)

      
All the more reason to find out what the Samsonov woman was doing here and how she'd found her way inside the house. Lord forbid she'd come to see Lord Hambleton. Josh would be devastated if he'd crossed the Atlantic just to find that his only blood relation was the traitor the American president had sent him to uncover.

      
It scarcely seemed credible. Lord Lansdowne’s clever Mr. Jamison would surely have suspected the earl if there was any reason to do so. Who was she to doubt a man who was the confidant of kings and prime ministers? Eddy’s life, and perhaps her own, hung in the balance, she reminded herself. For good or for ill, she had to learn the truth.

      
Sabrina methodically worked her way along the wall, shoving aside bushes and running her hands over the damp roughness of the stone. She almost missed it. A tiny crack, far too straight to be the result of natural settling of the ground, was concealed behind a large weeping fig bush. Sliding her fingers into the crevice, she ran them up and down, encountering a slight resistance that immediately gave way. When a narrow doorway soundlessly glided open, she gasped and jumped back. Somehow she'd triggered a hidden latch.

      
I've found the White Rabbit's hole!

      
Inside was stygian darkness. Glancing nervously around the deserted garden and up at the windows overlooking it, she detected no one. Sabrina swallowed hard, forcing back the prickle of uneasiness that had been building ever since she'd set foot in the garden. The matches would not work even though she'd been careful to keep them dry. Fumbling nervously, she tried again. Finally one flared to life and she lit the tiny lantern as she stood inside the shadow of the door.

      
A narrow flight of stone steps wound their way downward to some unknown destination. She had read about hidden passageways used during the English civil wars centuries ago to hide rebels and religious dissidents, but this was Mayfair in the twentieth century, and Hambleton House was certainly not old enough for such a thing. As she followed the stairs, she examined the walls and steps, realizing that they appeared smooth and new. No wear from countless people over years of use. This passageway must have been constructed in the recent past.

      
By whom? And for what purpose?

      
The stairway ceased its descent and began to rise again. If her sense of direction was not utterly off, she was now beneath the ground level of the house. In a few minutes she had climbed sufficiently to be at the first floor of the house...and at a dead end. A solid wall faced her once again. She held up the lantern and began to examine it.
What lies beyond this?

* * * *

      
Josh crouched down in the darkness of the alley, smelling the noisome odors of garbage blending with bilious phosphorus fumes from a waterfront factory upwind. They had been waiting for over two hours since Calvin Firth, disguised as Count Hayashi, had entered the small room on Downing Street. No attempt had been made to shoot him during his ride from the palace to his destination. Their last slim hope was that the Russians were being extraordinarily cautious and waiting until he came out from his “meeting” with Lansdowne, who had been cooling his heels inside all this while to no avail.

      
“I imagine the Foreign Secretary's pacing a hole in that splintery floor,” Michael whispered.

      
“At least he's not squatting in this piss hole,” Josh replied. “Smells bad enough to knock a buzzard off a gut wagon.”

      
Jamison chuckled softly over his friend's colorful American idiom, then stiffened as he observed the door across the street opening. “Our Japanese minister's coming out,” he said, preparing for action.

      
Josh, too, tensed, as both men scanned the narrow street. There were agents on the rooftops of several key places, and men posted on Whitehall and in St. James' Park. If a shot rang out, there would be no escape for the assassins this time. But Firth made his way to the waiting carriage, his figure silhouetted in the lantern light, without incident. He climbed inside and the vehicle took off. Josh and Michael waited until the sound of the horses' hooves died away. The carriage would retrace its route back to the palace.

      
Finally both men stood up, greatly disheartened.

      
“If Zarenko'd taken the bait, it would appear reasonable that he'd have tried here or in the park,” Jamison said.

      
“And we'd have heard the hullabaloo from here. Damn it all to hell!”

      
“He paid Whistledown for information he did not use,” Michael said, rubbing his chin speculatively. The glint in his eyes was hard and cold as steel.

      
A chill rippled down Josh's spine.

* * * *

      
Sabrina tried the same tactic she had employed on the outer door. At first it seemed not to work, but when she reversed her search to the opposite side, she encountered the same kind of latch. It clicked open, revealing a beautiful walnut panel. She stepped into Lord Hambleton's office, recognizing immediately his massive desk and the bookcase-lined walls around it. A secret passage into his inner sanctum! She speculated over what it signified.

      
Such a device made sense if he held clandestine meetings with high-ranking members of the Foreign Office. But what had Natasha Samsonov been doing here this afternoon? That was the disturbing question. Sabrina set her lantern on the floor so the light would not shine through the narrow crack in the heavy velvet draperies drawn over the front window. Did she dare to search an earl's private office, especially one so highly placed in the government? If so, what should she look for?

      
Not having the slightest idea, she began to go through the papers on his desk, then the drawers, being careful not to disturb anything. There were all sorts of scribbled notes about legislation pending or proposed for the next session of Parliament, reports from the factor who managed his estates scattered all about England. Nothing at all amiss for a peer of wealth and standing.

      
“I would never have suspected you possessed the nerve to break into a peer's home,” snapped a nasty voice. “I should have known better.”

      
Sabrina whirled around to confront the familiar figure standing at the doorway to the secret panel. The first thing her eyes fastened on was the pistol in his hand, pointed directly at her. In his other hand he held the note she had penned that morning.

      
“So you're the White Rabbit,” she said.

      
As he advanced toward her, he stared at her as if she were a complete fool.

      
“Of course I am!”

Bookmark”Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

      
Josh and Michael took a hansom to meet the earl at his club after the debacle on Downing Street, per Hambleton's instruction. In route both men were quiet, deep in thought, pondering why the trap had failed. It was obvious that Zarenko had known about it. If Jamison believed the earl was involved, he said nothing, but, considering that Josh himself was worried about the possibility, it made for a grim ride indeed.

      
“I shall hate to report another failure to Lansdowne and Hambleton,” Michael said as they approached the heavy oak door.

      
Josh broke stride. “The Foreign Secretary’ll be here?”

      
Jamison sighed. “I'm afraid so. With Hayashi arriving to discuss the final version of the treaty tomorrow, this was our last hope of averting a diplomatic catastrophe. I fear Lansdowne will ask the Prime Minister to cancel the reception at court. Your uncle's opinion on such a delicate matter will definitely be considered. Lansdowne certainly will be here. It wouldn't surprise me if Salisbury himself didn't put in an appearance.”

      
Gloomily they followed the footman who had admitted them as he led them down a long maroon-carpeted hallway to a private room where they would be interrogated by the highest-ranking men in the government. “After this shindig is over, maybe I should see if my old pard Alexi and his pals are at the White Satin. Things usually get lively about this time of night,” Josh ventured.

      
Preoccupied, Jamison nodded.

      
Salisbury was not present but Lansdowne was, just as Michael had guessed. The distinguished gentleman was a whipcord-lean outdoorsman of vigorous middle years. His hairline had receded, but he sported a luxuriant mustache in compensation. Like his friend the earl, he exuded a sense of quietly restrained power. The Foreign Secretary broke the silence the moment the door was closed by the footman. “Wesley, it is indeed a pleasure to finally meet my old friend’s heir.” He extended his hand, and Josh clasped it in a firm grip.

      
“I don't reckon your pleasure's gonna last all that long, my lord,” Josh replied.

      
“I take it you were unsuccessful,” the Foreign Secretary said, observing the expression on his best agent’s face.

      
As they discussed the situation, Josh studied his uncle. There simply was no way the old man could be guilty of treason.
But who—

      
“I say, Joshua, you’re in a brown study. Do share your opinion with us,” the earl said.

      
“Oh, I was just thinking of everyone who works at Hambleton House. More folks than it'd take to drive a herd of beeves clean up to Alaska.”

      
“You're assuming that the leak of information comes from your end, not my office,” Lansdowne interjected, his keen dark eyes fastened on the American. “We have cut off all information available to Albany's pup, but I do have a small hand-picked cadre of men whom I trust implicitly...perhaps too implicitly.” Abruptly switching his attention from Josh, he asked Michael, “What do you think of Piltcher?”

      
Before Jamison could reply, the earl said, “I've been turning over the problem since we discovered young Whistledown was involved. The boy's a fool, no more capable of this sort of intrigue than is my old hound Ludlow.”

      
“If not Sabrina's cousin, then who?” Josh asked.

      
The Foreign Secretary and his agent both waited for the earl's reply.

      
“I may know when we return home. In fact, I suspect I shall be quite certain,” he replied in a subdued tone.

* * * *

      
Sabrina fought to breathe through the heavy wad of cloth stuffed in her mouth, bound tightly in place with a scarf. Another scarf covered her eyes. If only her heart would stop racing. She was alone, in stygian darkness, rocking back and forth on the floor of a badly sprung carriage as it bounced toward heaven knew where. She had no idea what he was going to do with her now that she had unwittingly discovered him. In fact, she had no idea if he was even aboard.

      
After binding and gagging her, he'd pressed a cloth soaked in some vile liquid to her nose and mouth. Ether. She remembered nothing from that horrible moment in the library until she awakened in the carriage. At first she'd been terrified that her roiling stomach would rebel and she'd aspirate because of the gag, but by sheer force of will, she'd fought to subdue her body’s natural urge to purge itself of the drug. Her head still ached, and every time she attempted to move her cramped arms and legs, dizziness assailed her.

      
There was little room in which to move anyway. The carriage was a small closed conveyance with both doors locked. She'd tried kicking at the one nearest her feet, but could do nothing to open it. Then she'd struggled to turn around in the narrow space between the seats and kick the other door. Equally useless. The driver had ignored the racket, never slackening his breakneck pace.

      
Where are they taking me? And what will they do to me when we arrive?

      
Such thoughts would only lead to more panic. Sabrina could not afford that luxury. She was utterly on her own. Well, that was scarcely a new experience, considering that she'd come to London to make her own way seven years ago. If she had succeeded by brains and determined self-discipline once, she could do so again. All she had to do was to use her mind to outsmart her enemies. She concentrated on breathing deeply.

      
Judging from the silence outside and the muffled sounds of the horses' hooves, they were somewhere in the countryside. Perhaps if she feigned illness from the effects of the badly administered dose of ether, she would find an opportunity to escape once she was taken outside the confines of the locked carriage. Pretending to be ill would not take great thespian abilities, she concluded, considering how wretched she felt.