The Return of the Duke - Grace Callaway Page 0,122

going to charge in and do whatever was necessary to make the man talk.

The back gate opened. The last rays of daylight revealed that it was Erlenmeyer. The doctor was pushing a patient in a wheeled chair: Anna Smith, her lolling head betraying her drugged state. Erlenmeyer heaved Smith into the back of the waiting wagon as if she were a sack of bricks, throwing a cover over her.

Then he climbed onto the driver’s seat, and the wagon began to move.

Severin sent a man to alert the other teams.

“Follow him at a distance,” Severin instructed his driver. “Don’t let that wagon out of your sight.”

Adelaide left Fancy in the room, her voice carrying clearly from outside the door.

“If she makes any trouble, kill her.”

A chilled droplet slid down Fancy’s spine as she heard the affirmative replies of the princess’s guards. One false move and she knew the men would not hesitate to snuff her out like a candle.

Which means…I cannot make a false move.

Her heart pounding in her ears, she pulled on her bonds. It was no use; her arms were tied to the arms of the chair and her torso was secured to the chair’s back. If she tipped herself backward and landed hard enough, she might be able to crack the wood and break free…but the noise would alert the guards.

Think, Fancy. This is a problem like any other. How do you fix it?

What she needed was…a friend.

A tinker’s friend.

She jiggled her leg—and her heart thumped with relief when she felt the reassuring bump of the tool against her right thigh. The width and layers of her skirts had hidden it from Princess Adelaide. She began wriggling her right leg. As she strained against the bonds, she realized that the tightness was around her ankle, over her half-boots. If she could just slip her foot out of the boot…

Gritting her teeth, she twisted her foot this way and that, and finally it popped free. Trying not to make noise, she lifted her freed leg, trying to get it to her bound right hand. She strained her hip to the side until she could grab hold of her skirts.

Almost there.

She inched her fingers closer and closer toward the hidden pocket. She got her hand into the pocket, but the tinker’s friend was too deep inside. Sweating, she raised her leg upward as far as she could, felt the shifting gravity of the tool sliding down, down…

It hit her palm, and she closed her fingers around it.

Thank you, Da, for giving me a tinker’s best friend.

She managed to open the knife, orienting the blade against her bonds. She shifted her hand back and forth, rubbing the rope against the sharp edge, sawing through the rough fibers. When the rope split, she grabbed the tool with her freed hand and dispensed with the rest of her restraints.

Her triumph was measured: she still had to escape her prison. She couldn’t get past the guards shuffling outside the door. The only other way out was the boarded-up window.

Taking off her other boot, she carried her footwear with her to minimize any noise. A floorboard creaked, shooting her heart into her throat, but when no guard came charging in, she exhaled, continuing on. The distance to the window felt like a mile. Arriving, she examined the barrier to her escape.

Six boards were nailed into the windowpane, two nails on each side of the board. It would take a while to remove the nails…and even longer to do it quietly. What other choice did she have? Using her tinker’s friend, she set to work prying the metal pegs free. The boards were thinner than she expected, the nails coming out easily. She popped them out one by one, catching them soundlessly in her sweaty palm.

When the last nail was out of the first board, she lowered it a fraction and peered out into the starlit darkness. It appeared that this was the back of the cottage and, luckily, she saw no guards. A dark shape loomed in the distance…a fence? Once she got out of the house, she would scale it and run for help.

Precious minutes passed as she removed two more boards. The opening she’d made was tight, but she could squeeze through if she shed her outer garments. With a silent apology to Amelie Rousseau, she ruthlessly cut off her clothes, layer after layer of fabric whispering to the ground. Clad in a corset, shift, and drawers, she put her boots back on