relative freedom of the airfield. She had promised to return to the earl in half an hour. It must be well past that, but perhaps the earl would not notice in the urgent need of all those people for his guidance and leadership.
The damaged ship belonged to the count, of course, but she could not remember seeing him in the melee. Which did not bode well. Anxious butterflies began to flutter in her stomach, but she took a deep breath and leaped up the gangway of the Margrethe, trying to ignore them. Perhaps Alice had succeeded in convincing him he was in danger, and he had prudently taken cover.
One thing at a time. At least the count, she devoutly hoped, was not in imminent danger of being hanged.
In the salon, the deck of which was now tilted slightly off the horizontal, some semblance of order had been cobbled together. She dodged between people laid out on the carpet with varying degrees of injury. Medics tended to those who had been hurt the worst, which seemed to have been the dancers, knocked out of their turns and thrown several feet. At least those who had been seated or in the orchestra had been closer to the ground, and had not been plucked out of the air in midstep.
Lord Dunsmuir was nowhere to be seen.
“I do beg your pardon,” she said to a man with a red band about his sleeve wrapping a bandage around Gloria’s arm with swift, firm movements. “Do you know where I might find Lord Dunsmuir? It is a matter of the greatest urgency.”
“Nein, fraulein,” the man said. “As you can see, I am busy here.”
“Looking after me,” Gloria said. “Claire, what a fright. Do you know what happened?”
“Parties unknown blew up the mine and one of the digging engines,” she said with heroic brevity. “Have you seen Lord Dunsmuir?”
“Last I saw, he was over there with my father.” Gloria waved a hand in the direction of the corridor that went forward to the bridge. “I’ll come with you. Good heavens, Claire, is that a gun?”
“Yes. There is no need. You must conserve your strength.”
And without a backward glance, she headed down the corridor, trying doors one after the other. The bridge was in a state of organized chaos as the Margrethe’s captain appeared to be taking reports on the state of ship, crew, and guests.
No John.
She could not search the entire ship. There was no time. She must ask for help.
Someone tapped her shoulder and she turned to see Gloria, cradling her arm. “I just had a look out the porthole and saw Lord Dunsmuir heading over to that pretty gold ship with Father and some others.”
“Oh, thank you.”
She headed for the forward gangway at a run, and only realized several moments later than Gloria was running behind her, awkwardly hugging her arm to her ribs.
“Claire, wait up.”
“I can’t. A man’s life is at stake.” She jumped down the stairs two at a time, and ran for the Lady Lucy faster than she ever had in her life.
She found John and Davina together in the forward salon, her ladyship still with Willie in her lap, and conferring in low, rapid tones with several men, among them Mr. Meriwether-Astor and the first officer of the Margrethe.
Oh, dear. And Reginald Penhaven, who had clearly come straight here while she was fluttering about on the great Zeppelin ship attempting to find them, like a moth beating itself to exhaustion against a windowpane as it tried to get to the lamp within.
“Lord Dun0">, like smuir!” she said breathlessly, crossing the room. “I need your help!”
But he did not seem to hear. It was only when Willie wriggled out of his mother’s grasp and ran to hug her around the waist that they took any notice of her at all.
“Claire, return to your cabin at once,” his lordship ordered in tones he had never addressed to her before. “It is far too dangerous for you to be wandering about.”
“It is far too dangerous for me to stay,” she retorted in tones equally peremptory. “John, they are about to hang Frederick Chalmers for causing the explosions, but he is innocent.”
“My information indicates you are wrong.”
“Your information is biased by the self-interest and criminal intent of your informants.”
“Claire!” Davina had gone as pale as her cream silk gown, which, Claire now saw, was streaked with brown stains and what appeared to be half the contents of a punch bowl. “Explain yourself.”
Too late, she realized